


Janiculum

by circadian_rythm



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Elvhenan, Fanfic of Fanfic, Multi, Time Travel, looking glass baby au, olwyn is a baby and is not pleased
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6592873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circadian_rythm/pseuds/circadian_rythm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The Sun Going South</p>
<p>In late sunshine I wander troubled.<br/>Restless I wander in autumn sunlight.<br/>Too many changes, partings, and deaths.<br/>Doors have closed that were always open.<br/>Trees that held the sky up are cut down.<br/>So much that I alone remember!<br/>This creek runs dry among its stones.<br/>Souls of the dead, come drink this water!<br/>Come into this side valley with me,<br/>a restless old woman, unseemly,<br/>troubled, walking on dry grass, dry stones.”<br/>― Ursula K. Le Guin</p>
<p>Olwyn Trevelyan believed that the destruction of the world would be the end of everything. Yet somehow Solas has sent her back in time to ancient Elvhenan to try and right his wrongs. The only problem is that she doesn't arrive in quite the same state she left in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Looking Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867676) by [Feynite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite). 



> So I decided to add my mage Trevelyan into [Feynite's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite)Kid!Fic AU because why not, right? If you don’t know, Feynite is currently writing an amazing SoLavellan fic called Looking Glass where Lavellan is sent back in time to Elvhenan and it kind of inspired an offshoot of that in which Lavellan and other members of the Inquisition were subsequently reborn into Elvhenan as babies. And since everyone else is having fun throwing their Inquisitors into the mix I thought I’d add my own because I wanted to take a break from my other fics and my master’s thesis for a bit. So…let’s do this. Tell me if you guys enjoy it. :D

Something is terribly wrong. More wrong than it should be; which, considering that mere moments ago her friend Solas had pulled the world apart at the seams, is hard to imagine. An excruciating death and then ultimately nothing were what she had been expecting. The pain part had certainly been accurate, but the nothingness of oblivion is missing.

Instead she is lying in a forest clearing and has become several sizes smaller. _Baby_ sized, with tiny hands and feet and a body that does not move how she wills.

Some people might call this a miracle. A sign of divine providence from the Maker. The Herald of Andraste reborn through the Maker’s grace.

Olwyn Trevelyan is not most people, unfortunately. In fact, she’s not even particularly religious. Being a circle mage whose entire life is said to be one step away from demon possession and who the followers of the Maker actively persecute and antagonize in their doctrine tends to do that. Her mother would have believed it was the Maker’s will. Great Aunt Dilys would have started changing the Trevelyan family crest to include some blatant symbol of Andrastian favor. _She’s_ more inclined to view it all as another sick twist of fate, as it were.

It doesn’t help that she’s just witnessed the utter destruction of her world and everything and everyone she’s ever loved. And this tiny infant body of hers is more emotionally volatile than she’d like to admit. So she’s crying now, tiny little baby wails in between hiccups. She’s trying to stop it but the tears and the grief keep coming.

She is small and vulnerable and confused. She doesn’t know where or when or _why_ she’s here. Had Solas somehow sent her back? Some spasm of guilt that had urged him to try and fix things one last time? It is so like him, from the whole “messing everything up spectacularly in an attempt to put things right” to “not giving up on trying to fix it even when I have literally caused the world to fall apart”.

And so she’s here—wherever here is—and she’s a tiny baby lying in a pile of leaves and grass. She’s got both arms, which is an improvement, and she’d probably be more thankful about that if she wasn’t a baby in the middle of an unknown forest whose world has been destroyed and who is, in hindsight, _extremely_ hungry. Hungry enough to consider eating the leaf that’s stuck to her left arm. In fact, it’s getting very hard to keep herself from sticking it in her mouth. She knows it won’t taste good and the nutritional value is likely null but _what if she did it anyway?_ Her mouth is empty and there is a convenient leaf within grabbing distance.

No. Why would she want to eat a leaf? How is that going to help the situation at all? It won’t. Putting that leaf in her mouth will do absolutely nothing for her. It’s a stupid idea, that’s what it is.

Fifteen minutes later she puts the leaf in her mouth.

It tastes as bad as she’d assumed it would, and she doesn’t have any teeth either so it’s just mushed to the top of her mouth with some dirt and she’s still crying. The leaf in her mouth is not making the crying stop. Now she’s hungry and miserable and her mouth tastes like mud.

It’s all Solas’ fault.

_Solas brought me back to have me die of starvation in the middle of a forest. That tea-hating bastard._ It literally _is_ all Solas’ fault, actually. Well, she has to take credit for sticking a leaf in her mouth. He didn’t have a hand in that poor life choice. But the rest of it is definitely his fault.

If only she’d had more time. Time to convince Solas that they were worth saving and that destroying their world to put the old one back in its place was wrong. She’d almost gotten to him the last time they’d spoken.

_“You didn’t fail the People when you put up the veil. You failed them when you didn’t help the ones who remained. When you decided that the only People that mattered were the ones that were dead instead of the ones still living. You’re failing them_ now _, Solas.”_

More time. She’d just needed more _time_.

Time she supposes she has now, for all the good it will do her. Chances are it won’t matter one way or another. Not when she doesn’t know where she is and she’s stuck in the body of a baby.

She is genuinely worried that she is going to die out here. It’s been three hours and it is starting to get cold. She’s managed to stop crying and spit out the leaf. She won’t have the indignity of her body being found with a leaf wedged down her throat at least.

_So this is the end. I’m really going to die. I miraculously survived the destruction of the world to die from overexposure._ She wants to be angry and she is. She _is_ angry. But more than that she’s tired. Tired of being jerked around by the whims and expectations and magic of other people and constantly falling short of the mark they set for her.

Whatever Solas had intended for her to do here won’t happen because she’s going to die. She wants to punch him. _If I somehow make it through this and meet you again I am going to hit you so hard your grandmother will feel it._ Though he probably doesn’t have a grandmother. She doesn’t know if he had any family at all. Followers and friends, but family she isn’t so sure of.

_She’d_ had a family. A mother and a father and two little brothers. And insufferable Great Aunt Dilys. And she and Cullen had wanted—no, no she needs to stop that line of thought right now or she really won’t be able to stop herself from crying. Even now she can feel the tears building, a tiny swell of grief growing larger in her chest with each hitched breath.

So intent she is on keeping her crying muffled that she almost doesn’t hear them. But she catches the tail-end of a twig snapping and stills. Something is here with her. She is too small and too weak to escape or fight back. She is powerless again, more powerless than she has been in a very long while and it is _terrifying_.

A shadow falls over her and all she sees is a head of thick brown hair and bright blue eyes. It is an elf, dressed in odd armor. The elf is speaking and at first she doesn’t have any idea what they are saying. It comes slowly, at a delay, like she’s mentally putting the words through some kind of translator. She realizes moments later that that is probably exactly what her mind is doing. The tiny part of it that was a culmination of old elvhen wisdom from the well of sorrows. That means they are speaking elvish, in some form or another. And they have markings on their face—vallaslin, the Dalish call it vallaslin.

“Poor little one, what are you doing out here? It is alright. You are safe.” A strong feeling of protectiveness and comfort settles over her like a thick, warm blanket. The urge to cry is lessened somewhat. The elf turns and calls out behind them, and three more elves appear, all wearing the same vallaslin in varying colors. She can literally _see_ the surprise and worry and excitement in the air around them, it seems, as they begin talking above her head.

Where did she come from?

Was there anyone else in the area?

Who leaves a baby in the middle of the forest?

There isn’t a settlement for miles in any direction, the baby could have died out here all alone!

This is terrible. A crime that deserves punishment of the highest order!

The anger is making her edgy again, and she gives a small hiccup as she tries to hold it in. They all turn to her worriedly, and the anger in the air retreats to be replaced once more with comfort and kindness. The elf that found her holds her a little tighter, wrapping their long cloak around her like a blanket as they begin walking.

Someone is humming, and the sound lulls her to sleep just as they enter a clearing and she catches a tiny glimpse of a large eluvian before her eyes close.

* * *

 

She wakes to a multitude of voices. For a moment she forgets what has transpired and is horrified to find herself bundled up in a cloak with roughly the same size and mobility as a loaf of bread. The confusion abates somewhat, but the panic does not, and the voices above her go quiet as they realize she is awake.

She looks up. She is still being held by the elf that found her. Other elves are crowding around to catch a glimpse of her and ask the group from the woods how she was found. _She_ is more preoccupied with the glowing shape that is hovering just behind her elf’s left shoulder.

It is staring at her.

It is, she believes, a spirit.

And none of the elves seems particularly bothered by the fact that there is a spirit here. She doesn’t have much time to think about it, however, as there is a ripple in the crowd and all conversation goes silent as the elves part to reveal a figure striding forward.

The figure is a male elf. And while he is not considerably tall he does give off the feeling of being larger than he is. Which, in relation to her size at the moment, is monstrous. He is the only elf here without any vallaslin, and from the way the others glance down in deference tells her he is important. Perhaps their leader.

He demands to know where she came from, and the group of elves that found her tell him what they know, which is understandably very little. Only that she was alone in the middle of the woods on the edges of his territory showing great levels of distress and grief when they found her, and, in their words, nearly dead from starvation and cold. She doesn’t think the situation had been quite _that_ drastic.

The fact that she was abandoned in the woods sparks uncontrollable outrage among the elves present. The elf who seems to be the leader here is shouting about injustice and a manhunt for the criminals involved and all of the torment they will receive when found and he is quite literally _on fire_. It’s all rather alarming. She manages to keep from crying, but her distress must be visible somehow because the fire-breathing elf king notices and looks slightly mollified as the elf holding her tries their hardest to soothe her.

“Give her to me.” He orders and that is really not the best idea, she thinks. He’s still on fire and she isn’t fireproof or currently able to create a barrier and—well, the flames are actually pleasantly warm. Still terrifying with the knowledge that she’s one angry outburst from becoming a piece of charcoal, but warm. She feels a little calmer at least, and even manages to work up the courage to tug on his hair because it’s there and it looks very shiny wreathed in flames.

This is apparently an appropriate response, because he is momentarily distracted from vows of vengeance. He stares down at her, watching her tug at his hair and stopping her only when she attempts to stuff a pudgy handful of it in her mouth. “You should not eat hair.” He comments and she lets go, feeling extremely embarrassed. Why on earth can’t she keep from trying to eat everything?

He seems to come to some kind of decision while he rubs her back. “This infant has been wronged. Whoever brings the perpetrators to me for judgement will be given the child to raise.”

None of the elves present seem to find this proposition odd, as they all nod and many of them bow and turn to begin the hunt immediately. “You will have justice.” The male elf promises her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

_Yes,_ Olwyn agrees. _Yes I will._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Olwyn is given to her new parents and tries to come to terms with possessing an extremely inconvenient emotion cloud.

They don’t, as it turns out, find the nefarious criminal baby abandoners. If Olwyn had been capable of speech she could have told them that. But the only sounds she can produce are high-pitched wails and odd little gurgles. She’s trying her hardest to keep the wailing to a minimum, but the elves that are tasked with watching her for the time being seem able to feel her misery anyway.

As the first few weeks pass, the general consensus is that the culprits have disappeared completely and a new way of deciding her future parentage is needed. She’s content to remain with the three elves that have been minding her. They are kind and comforting when she needs it—which is disturbingly often—and one of them sings her to sleep at night.

The fire-breathing elf king comes to look in on her periodically and occasionally brings toys. They aren’t very mentally stimulating but at least they are safe if she feels the need to stuff them in her mouth.

It is during one of the fire-breathing elf king’s visits that she finally hears his name. She’s sitting on his lap trying to look absorbed in the stuffed creature she has been handed on this particular turn. She can’t identify it at first glance, and that at least preoccupies her for a few minutes as she tries to come up with a name for it.

It looks a bit like a bear with scales, and some oddly shaped back feet and a long tail that ends in a soft nub that is just _perfect_ to chew on. It’s nice to gnaw on things that don’t taste like mud or hair. In fact, she has a sinking suspicion that she has begun teething.

 _Bear lizard cow…is this a real animal? Is there really a bear lizard cow walking around somewhere?_ Does _it even walk?_ She gives the toy an experimental squeeze and it lets out a puff of air from a nostril on the top of its head that smells like rose petals.

_Perhaps I shall call you abomination._

She is so absorbed in trying to identify what unholy union could have possibly created the stuffed monster that she only hears the tail-end of what is being said. A name. A name she recognizes belatedly. Elgar’nan. He is, to her knowledge, one of the gods that the Dalish worshiped…the ones Solas claimed here actually just powerful mages who used their positions to enslave the rest of the ancient elves. She doesn’t know a great deal about these evanuris, just the very basics, like their names. They _had_ been the reason Solas had thrown up the veil in the first place, so she’d figured learning that much was a must.

Elgar’nan was supposedly their god of vengeance and the head of their little elvhen pantheon. And so it fits when she finally realizes that the fire-breathing elf king and Elgar’nan are one in the same. And she comes to the terrifying conclusion while she’s still sitting on the man’s lap.

 _Andraste’s tits,_ she curses silently. _I’m sitting on the lap of the all-father of evil elf-magisters._ This is truly the most bizarre situation she’s ever been in, and she once wrestled an Arishok naked in a bog. Which, despite how it sounded, was really one of her proudest moments, all things considered. It had landed the Inquisition the support of the Qunari forces against Solas’ doomsday armies, after all. She is still unsure why she’d needed to be naked for it.

Regardless, she really wants to be off his lap now. Before he decides to maim and/or enslave her. Everything about him is suddenly ten-times more terrifying. Every move he makes is a potential smite and she’s starting to feel rather ill.

Her discomfort is readily apparent to everyone around them, and Elgar’nan— _Elgar’nan_ —jostles her on his lap in an attempt to distract her from her despair. It really isn’t helping the situation. And if she hadn’t just come to the realization that she is being held by a tyrannical elf overlord responsible for the death and enslavement of almost an entire race she would feel a bit guilty about how worried he looks.

At least she has a frame of reference for the time she’s been sent to. Solas has sent her back to the golden age of elvhen society. She, a human mage. At least none of them seem to care that she isn’t an elf, though some have commented on the strange shape of her ears. One elf even proposed that the heinous child-abandoners must have cut them.

The only person she thinks would be capable and willing to cut off the ears of children is the man who is currently holding her. Of all the possible elf dictators for her to be saved by, it had to be their _leader_. She’s really starting to think that Solas had planned all of this meticulously as some perverse joke. She doesn’t know what she did to make him think he needed to throw her to the proverbial wolves. She’d considered them friends, even up to those last few moments when they’d knelt in the ash and dust and he’d apologized as the heat scorched their throats and magic screamed in their veins beneath their skin. Even then, she’d just wanted to sit with him in Skyhold again and discuss dreams and history and badly written literature.

So why on earth has he sent her into the clutches of _Elgar’nan_? The only way it could be worse was if he’d left her on Falon’Din’s doorstep. From what she’s heard and read of him, he’s about the biggest dick to have ever lived, so much so that even the _other_ evil dicks thought he was being too evil and allied against him.

The most irritating fact is that even if she somehow meets Solas in this time, he won’t have any answers for her. He won’t know her, or the things he’s done, or the people he befriended and betrayed and killed in the process of setting the world back to rights.

Her frustration, at least, has subdued her panic at her current predicament, but Elgar’nan still seems perplexed as to why she’s gone from content to terrified to angry in a matter of minutes. She tries to stamp the anger out. Best to leave her murderous thoughts for when she’s alone in her nursery with no one to worry why an infant is filled with righteous fury.

Elgar’nan moves her stuffed toy in front of her face to distract her and she swats at it. She wants to grab the offending bear cow lizard abomination and shove it down Elgar’nan’s throat, but she can’t. She wants to find Solas and shove the bear cow lizard abomination down _his_ throat—the real creature this time, not just the stuffed one—but she can’t do that either. So she grabs the offending plushie’s tale and bites down as hard as she can with no teeth until she’s calmed down.

It takes a very long while.

* * *

Her life as a baby slowly reaches a plane of normalcy she hadn’t believed she could attain. Nothing about any of this _should_ make sense, but she’s always had a strong affinity for accepting things as they are and plowing on ahead regardless.

Elgar’nan’s higher-ranking servants petition to raise her, but she remains with her caretakers for the time being. It gives her time to adjust to her new body and its needs—mainly food and sleep—and she fiddles with the magic inside of her and wonders what she’s doing to do with this new life that Solas has gifted and cursed her with. She can’t do much with the magic yet, but she can tell it is there. Her body is too weak to bend it to her will, but she lets herself become familiar with its new currents and eddies in a world that is both waking and the fade.

It takes her a while to draw on the magic at all, even though she knows it is present. It feels like she is trying to pull it from her own time, a time that doesn’t exist, and so it is slow-going. But the magic that was once hers is still here in this world, just in a different form, and she simply has to teach her body how to find that magic here rather than there.

She still can’t manifest it, but at least she knows where it is and how to call upon it, when the time comes. Olwyn is in the process of practicing with it—she’s really just trying to see if she can set the curtains on fire—when one of her caretakers reaches for her and picks her up.

“Hello, little one.” She murmurs, voice soft and low, and Olwyn feels her eyes beginning to droop out of habit. It is a nice voice, low and soft. But her caretaker simply holds her close and lets out a shaking sigh. “Elgar’nan has given you to Victory.”

Victory? What an odd name. It sounds more like a spirit than a person. The hands around her tighten, and her caretaker presses a kiss to her forehead. “It was only a matter of time before you were given to someone else.” It sounds like she is speaking more to herself than to Olwyn now. “And Victory, by his nature, is not easily beat. He will take you with him to Arlathan when he comes for you.”

Olwyn can feel her caretaker’s sadness, and reaches up to pat her cheeks with pudgy hands. It earns her a watery smile. “I will miss you,” She presses one last kiss to the top of Olwyn’s head. “Be happy and safe, little one,” She whispers against Olwyn’s curls.

It is not until Victory comes to take her to Arlathan that she realizes she does not know her caretaker’s name.

* * *

Victory is very big.

Bigger than she thinks is normal for an elf. But despite how monstrous he seems he picks her up like she is made of glass. He holds her up so that he can look her in the eyes, and the hand he uses to cradle her head dwarfs her completely. His eyes are the same color as the stonework of Adamant’s walls, but they are not cold.

At the moment she feels a bit like she’s some kind of tournament prize that’s just been handed over to the winner, which might be a bit inconsiderate to Victory who seems like he’s already in love. He wanted a baby to raise on his own and he’s gotten a reincarnated human inquisitor instead. She both pities him and feels guilty for not being the actual baby he thinks he’s getting.

“Hello little one,” He begins tentatively, as if he is worried she won’t like him. Which, given the _actual_ circumstances of her being an adult in a baby’s body would make sense. But he just earnestly wants his new baby to like him and that’s…rather endearing. She remembers briefly her own father, long ago, before her magic had surfaced. She’d been his “little princess” until the day she’d frozen her bathwater in the tub when she was seven. He’d never touched her after that, not in the three days between her magic appearing and being taken to Ostwick’s circle. She remembers the fear in his eyes when he’d realized what she was.

 _Mage_.

She remembers her mother’s tears. Her only daughter, lost to them forever. But she hadn’t been lost. She’d been sitting on her bed listening to her parents talk outside her locked room. She’d been right there but the moment her magic had appeared she’d been dead to them. A disappointment.

She’ll become a disappointment to Victory too, one day, when he realizes that he never got the baby he wanted.

Victory’s brow furrows. “What’s wrong? It’s alright, I’ve got you.” He jostles her a bit, patting her back gently as she sniffles. She hadn’t realized she’d been so near tears. She wants to tell him she’s sorry, but she simply lets out a small whimper. He continues to rock her for a few minutes until she quiets and the cloud of misery surrounding her abates.

She’ll have plenty of time to plan what to do when Victory learns of her deception. Time to come up with an escape route, perhaps. The illustrious elvhen empire can’t cover the entirety of Thedas, right? There must be places a person can hide. And she’ll think about how she’s supposed to fix whatever it is Solas thinks she can fix.

The easiest way to keep Solas from ever putting up the veil and subsequently tearing it down is to kill him. But that won’t stop the enslavement of the elves by the evanuris and she doesn’t think, even with as angry as she is at him, that she would be able to do it.

He’d been her first friend outside of the Circle, after all. She, a scared young mage, branded apostate, with strange magic gleaming in her palm and no idea what was to become of her. She doesn’t like to think about the reasons for his initial kindness. Guilt because he had been the reason she was now being torn apart by his mistakes? Or simply a ploy to keep her close so that he could easily deal with her if needed.

Her thoughts continue to take dark paths and she has to make herself think of something calming. This odd emotion-cloud addition to the world is a major annoyance. She can’t even properly grieve because her emotions are displayed to the world and her grief is hers alone. She just wishes she could properly cry it out without everyone assuming that she needs to be coddled and made happy again. She is not a baby crying over a wet nappy or a need for a bottle. She is the sole survivor of a world now gone, torn from her grasp before her eyes by a man she once considered a dear friend. Her grief is hers alone and until she can face it head on she thinks it will build into bitterness and anger and those things rarely lend themselves to productivity and happy endings.

She doesn’t want to end up vengeful, not really. She wants justice but it has been denied her. All she can do now is try and make something with what she’s been given. Olwyn the shy and terrified Circle mage would never be able to survive it all. But Olwyn the Inquisitor is a being forged through fire and perseverance and she has come out sharper and stronger rather than brittle. She will live and grow and when she is able to support herself she will see what needs to be done and do it.

But for now, perhaps, she can allow herself a moment of peace. She lets out a small little sigh, a puff of hot air against Victory’s embroidered collar. He smells nice. Like cinnamon and smoke. Her invisible emotion cloud or whatever it is must have gone back to normal, because Victory shifts her in his arms so that he can look her in the face.

“There now,” He murmurs with a slow smile as he leans forward and boops her on the nose. “I am not so scary, see?” The action startles a laugh out of her because it is so affectionate and absurd, an ancient elf warrior rubbing noses with her. It is the first time she’s laughed since she’s arrived here, and she almost doesn’t recognize the sound. A baby’s giggles fill the room and they are hers and that only makes her laugh more.

Victory is delighted by it; she can see it in the air around him. He brushes his thumb against her cheek, just below her eye. “Little one,” He murmurs, “Aelynthi will _love_ you.”

* * *

Arlathan is perfect and white and brilliant and Olwyn hates it the moment they spot it. The sunlight reflects off of it like a giant mirror, and it hurts her eyes to look at it directly. She buries her face in Victory’s shirt and wonders whose bright idea it was to build an entire city out of white, reflective stone.

Whoever it was, she hopes that in her time they died some kind of horrible, tragic death at Solas’ hands.

The city is so large that they take several eluvians just to get to their new home. As they pass through each one she catches only more glimpses of white stone and wonders how anyone can find their way around. There are no visible signs or landmarks aside from some ridiculously large towers, one of which is actually _floating_. She catches glimpses of a multitude of faces and vallasin as they pass, and many of the elves eye her curiously. Babies seems to be a bit of a rarity here. Even the spirits seem to be following them, though that could also be because they are curious about her being a fully grown woman inside the body of a baby rather than the fact that there’s an infant present.

She loses track of how many eluvians they pass through and how many turns they’ve made and takes a brief nap, awakening to a multitude of voices.

“—is that the baby?”

“—it is so tiny! Did they really find it in the woods?”

“—can I hold her?”

“She is sleeping,” Olwyn hears Victory reprimand, but he sounds more amused than anything. “I will take reports in my office once I have settled her in.” There is a chorus of agreements and Olwyn blinks, finding herself peering into eight golden eyes. When the spirit blinks, none of the eyes seems to close at the same time. She reaches out a hand and watches in fascination as a tendril of soft light curls around her fingers.

“She’s awake!” Someone comments, but Olwyn is focused entirely on the spirit. She wonders what kind it is, as it latches onto her more firmly.

“You cannot fix anything at the moment. Your body is too small. But it is a good plan for when you are older.” The spirit continues to peer down at her.

“Purpose!” Victory barks as he jostles Olwyn on his shoulder. “What are you doing in the barracks?” He waves a hand to shoo it off, and the spirit of Purpose reluctantly retreats, but keeps its gaze squarely on Olwyn, who stares back.

She wants to ask the spirit what exactly it had meant but Victory is taking her inside a large, high-walled building that is, surprisingly, made of slate gray stone rather than white. It is built in a similar style to Elgar’nan’s other palace, overwhelming in its size and made of strong, bold lines. Imposing rather than pretty. There is no softness in the design.

There is decidedly less fire, but still more than is needed. Two giant trenches lined with serpentstone run the length of the immense great hall, and flames run along their surface like a writhing mass of snakes.

Victory takes her out of the giant chamber and through several hallways until they reach what she suspects are his rooms. They are larger than the nursery that had been set up for her in Elgar’nan’s other holding. Most of the room follows the same motif as the rest of the building, with one wall devoted entirely to a ridiculous amount of weapons, including a rather massive war hammer.  

She catches a glimpse of several doors leading to other areas as Victory places her down on his bed. “Tomorrow your crib will arrive.” Victory explains to her, as the silence in the room seems to stretch. “Aelynthi is bringing it.” The bed dips as he lays out beside her, tickling her tummy. She squirms at the sensation, and his smile widens. “He made it himself, though he carves stone more often than wood. You will like him. He is gentle and kind and beautiful.”

He sighs as he presses a kiss to her nose.  “We have wanted a baby for a very long time.”

She really, really hopes she lives up to their expectations.

She has a sinking feeling she won’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Olwyn meets Aelynthi and a curious squishy peacekeeper.

Before the day is over, Victory must take “reports”, so he straps Olwyn to his chest in a very comfortable, if not ridiculous looking, sling and walks out across a courtyard full of training dummies and into a large room she guesses is his office. She uses the term office in the loosest of meanings, because there’s a desk and a chair and a few ledgers stacked up on the corner of said desk but the rest of the room is covered in floor to ceiling glass shelving…and upon those shelves are rows upon rows of shiny stones.

One of the them is sitting atop the desk when Victory sits, and Olwyn reaches for it before she realizes what she’s doing. Victory stops her before her pudgy fingers can brush against the surface—the stone looks like it has _scales_ and there is a tiny flickering light dancing around inside of it.

“That is not for you,” Victory murmurs, and his voice is a low rumble in his chest next to her ear. She can feel magic of some sort in the rocks, and the room is nearly buzzing with it all, like Sera’s hid bees behind the walls. That, on top of her already heightened sense to magic and these weird elvhen emotion clouds, has her fidgeting a bit in her sling.

Victory smiles down at her, “I will need to find something to distract you with, won’t I?”

_I really don’t know what’s going on_ , she silently agrees. _I’m normally much more well behaved than this._ She simply gives a tiny, tired sigh as she curls up further in the blanket sling. He had fed her before they left his rooms so she is full and rather sleepy when they arrive, even with all the distracting sights and magic.

She tries to listen in on everything that’s said, as other elves come into the room to report in. When they speak, the stone on Victory’s desk gives off a steady glow. From what her sleep addled mind pieces together, Victory is in charge of the city of Arlathan’s security, or at least part of it. There are patrols, though it doesn’t seem like anything major seems to be happening. Some talk of cleaning out a few of the lower city streets of “nuisances” that she is both curious and worried about. The way they say nuisance makes her think less of someone talking about a nug infestation and more of how some nobles had talked about Ostwick’s elven alienage.

Much of the reports are actually the other elves cooing over her. They keep their distance, though it looks like they want desperately to reach over and touch her. The others seem to get distracted easily if she moves, or makes a sound, or just blinks; it’s as if they’ve never seen a baby before. For a while Victory doesn’t seem to mind until he has to ask for one poor elf, with rust-colored vallaslin and skin as pale as Victory’s is dark, to repeat himself for a third time. After that, his impatience begins to seep through.

“You may have to stay with Aelynthi when I take reports,” Victory decides during a brief reprieve.

She makes a disgruntled gurgle of protest at that. While she doesn’t understand everything that’s being discussed, she knows how important it is to listen in on these kinds of things. Taking reports is something she’s _used_ to, and it will be helpful when she’s old enough to actually _do_ something.

Victory smiles down at her and taps her on the nose.

* * *

 

Her first night in Arlathan goes by without much fuss. She had originally worried that Victory might squash her in her sleep, if only because there is so very much of him and so little of her. But the bed is big and he is careful, and she wonders if he even sleeps or if he just watches her through the night.

He is already awake when she finds herself blinking sleep from her eyes. 

Victory is dressing her when the door opens and a slender elf walks into the room. He wears a different vallaslin than Victory—not Elgar’nan’s then. It scrolls across his face in elegant mauve lines. He drops a large bag next to the door and walks toward them as Victory lifts her in his arms and turns her so that she can see him fully. “Aelynthi,” Victory murmurs, “Come look at her.”

Aelynthi barely acknowledges Victory, who seems fondly amused over the fact, as he stares down at Olwyn. “Oh,” Aelynthi takes her from Victory, his voice wavering slightly. The expression on his face is difficult to describe, equal parts awe and uncertainty. “She is so _small_.”

Victory chuckles and Aelynthi frowns at him, but cannot keep the dour expression for long as his gaze centers on Olwyn once more.

“She looks even smaller when I hold her.” Victory grins as he comes up behind Aelynthi and presses a quick kiss to the side of his head. Aelynthi doesn’t seem to notice. He is far too preoccupied with looking Olwyn over. He runs a slender finger along the side of her face and under her chin. His fingers are rough, someone who works with their hands, but not from holding weapons. The callouses are in the wrong places for sword-work.

She does her own assessment of her new parent as he begins to count her fingers and toes, as if to make sure they’re all there. He is beautiful. That is really the only way she can think to describe him. Victory is handsome, and all of the elves she’s seen are varying levels of attractive, but Aelynthi is _beautiful_. Like a painting come to life. His eyes are narrow and lined with kohl. Their color reminds her of peacock feathers. Where Victory smells like cinnamon and smoke and armor polish, Aelynthi smells like paint and dust and sandalwood.

“Who could ever abandon a child?” Aelynthi asks, stricken for a moment. “It is too cruel. What if no one had _found_ her?”

Victory’s expression darkens. It is the closest Olwyn has seen to anger on him. “They are still looking.”

“I wasn’t so much abandoned as I was wrenched through time be a traitorous ex-best friend and shoved into an infantile body,” she says. Or at least, that’s what she tries to say. Unfortunately, all that comes out is a string of inarticulate coos and gurgles. Which is just as well, she supposes. She doesn’t think they’d take it very well if they’d understood her. They are completely taken with the noises she makes anyway, regardless of what she’s actually saying.

“The crib is just outside,” Aelynthi remarks, bouncing Olwyn enough that she unconsciously lets out a giggle.  “I also brought over some clothing.”

“I have clothing for her.” Victory defends as he walks to the door to grab the crib.

“And I am certain none of it matches,” Aelynthi retorts. “If she is to stay with me she will be introduced to Sylaise. She will need to look presentable.”

“Don’t pretend to be so fussy with appearances. I’ve seen you covered in plaster and paint,” Victory teases as he reappears with the large crib hefted over one shoulder. “Where should we put it?”

“Next to the bed,” Aelynthi orders. “I would never appear before _Sylaise_ looking like that. Perhaps Elgar’nan does not care if his followers are constantly covered in blood and muck, but other leaders have standards.”

Victory snorts, but he places the crib down and comes back over to the two. He presses a kiss to Aelynthi’s forehead even as the other man wrinkles his nose and frowns. “I like you best when you are covered in paint.”

Aelynthi raises an eyebrow. “Truly? I like you best when you are naked.”

Victory throws his head back and laughs, clear and loud and infectious. Olwyn finds herself giggling along with him, both amused and terrified that she is listening to her new elvhen parents talk about their sex lives. They’d likely be horrified if they knew she could understand them, which only makes it all the more hilarious.

Aelynthi is smiling when he glances back down at Olwyn. “Have you thought of any names?”

Oh, that’s right. They don’t know what her name is, do they? She doubts that Olwyn is a very common Elvish name. It doesn’t mean anything as far as she knows. She supposes that until she’s able to tell them her own, this is the one she’ll be stuck with.

Then again, technically Olwyn wasn’t her choice either. Just the name her original parents decided on for her. She’d never really thought of it much. So it isn’t all that weird if she looks at it that way. It’s just another name.

Victory pauses, looking thoughtful as he nods. “El’enavhenan,” he murmurs softly.

Aelynthi’s breath hitches, before he lets out a soft sigh. “It is a good name.”

Olwyn can’t deny that. It’s pretty. The sound of it is rather lyrical. But a tiny part of her aches with guilt. El’enavhenan. _Our heart has appeared_. She wonders how long they have waited for a child. Hundreds of years? Thousands? Fate has played a cruel joke on them, and she feels as if she is responsible.

_I’ll try to be a good child for as long as I’m able,_ she promises as she begins to drift to sleep. _I don’t have much experience with loving parents, but you don’t have much experience with babies so I think we’ll make it work._

* * *

She spends the next few months between Elgar’nan’s peacekeeper headquarters, Aelynthi’s home in the upper city, and the giant crystalline tower that is the center of Sylaise’ holdings. Of the three places, she enjoys Aelynthi’s home the most and Sylaise’ tower the least. Luckily she spends the least amount of time there.

She meets Sylaise herself a few weeks into her stay in Arlathan. Aelynthi takes her with him to deliver some finished piece from his workshop, his last bit of work for the time being as he’s been given leave for a few years to help raise her.

Sylaise is frighteningly stunning.

She is too perfect, too symmetrical. It’s as if someone took all of the prettiest aspects off of many people and placed them all on one face. It makes her uncomfortable to look at her for too long. Sylaise asks to hold her and Olwyn finds herself staring into the face of her second evil elf-magister. _Two down, six to go,_ she thinks. Well, technically seven to go, but she’s not going to count Solas until she’s certain that he’s already become one of them.

“She is lovely,” Sylaise remarks, in a voice that sounds like wind chimes, before she hands her back to Aelynthi. “She will fit well in my halls. Bring her often.”

Aelynthi assures her he will do so and they leave soon after, much to Olwyn’s relief. Aelynthi’s home is attached to a large, high-roofed workshop that he seems to own along with two other elves. The walls are covered in brilliant murals that ripple and change depending on the time of day. Aelynthi’s rooms are full of a half-dozen unfinished sculptures, each more breathtaking than the last. She doesn’t get to fully appreciate them, as she’s usually being whisked through the room in someone’s arms, but she still finds herself fascinated. Spirits of beauty and creativity and innovation frequent the halls and the small corner of the main workshop floor that is set up for her when Aelynthi is working.

The peacekeper’s headquarters, where Victory’s rooms are situated, are exciting and interesting in their own way. The barracks and attached training grounds remind her of Skyhold, and her tiny hands often itch to grab a staff when she hears the familiar clang of metal against metal.

She listens to the grunts and yells and smells the tang of metal and magic in the air mixed with Victory’s soft humming as he works at his desk a few feet away from her cushion-laden crib. Victory likes to sing, and she enjoys listening to it. He has a nice voice.

Olwyn absently bats at the mobile hanging above her head. It isn’t attached to anything that she can see, so she supposes it’s being held up by magic. Hanging from each thin chord is a jewel-winged butterfly, and every once and a while they seem to come to life and flutter above her head like the real things. They are quite distracting when she’s trying to listen to the reports on the city.

She’s so distracted by them one particular morning that she doesn’t hear the door open.  “Well, hello there.”

Olwyn blinks at the unknown voice and looks over to see a figure approaching her slowly from the other side of the room. She’s grown accustomed to the elves having very odd features—one of the peacekeeper captains spends most of their time in the shape of a gorilla—but this elf is the first one she has seen who isn’t, well, thin. All the other elves have been varying degrees of slender. Some unnaturally so, but all of them seem to favor lithe lines. Even Victory, for all his bulk, is all corded muscle. This elf, however, can’t be described by any other word but…squishy.

She looks like she would be very comfortable to sleep on. If she is here it means she is a peacekeeper and if the gigantic axe strapped to her back is any indication, her softness seems to hide steel. She’s wearing golden armor that ripples when the light catches it. The light distracts her for a few moments, her eyes following the reflections until the elf bends down to where she’s seated among the cushions.

“You are _adorable_ ,” The elf’s voice is low and warm.

“Oh that’s right, you haven’t seen her yet, have you Desire?” Another elf asks as the two lean forward to look down at her. Victory watches them watch her but makes no move to dissuade them from their fussing.

Desire? As in, a former spirit of Desire? She’s learned over the last few months what those kinds of names usually mean. A spirit of Desire seems like an odd choice for a peacekeeper. Unless it…desired order? She doesn’t think it works that way. Elgar’nan does not seem like the type to give a body to a spirit of Desire though.

“May I hold her?” Desire asks, dangling a length of her hair above Olwyn’s face. The tip of it tickles her nose and she sneezes, which makes Desire’s smile widen.

“Very well,” Victory assents. He is far more open with other people holding her than Aelynthi is, which had surprised her at first. Aelynthi seems to think that every person is a potential threat to their baby, while Victory seems to enjoy parading her about and listening to people lavish praise on her like he’s somehow the reason she’s so cuddly and adorable and those praises belong to him as well.

Desire picks her up out of the crib and nuzzles her cheek. “Babies smell so _nice_.” The other elf snorts, but reaches over and touches her hair, remarking on how soft it is. Olwyn, for her part, can’t help herself from leaning forward and pressing herself against Desire’s chest. Yes. Soft. Definitely perfect for cuddling.

“Well,” The plump elf sighs as she holds Olwyn close. “Who on earth is running around leaving babies in the wilderness? First Uthvir’s child and now you.” She shakes her head.

Wait. What? There is another mysterious forest baby out there somewhere? Surprise and concern spike in the air around her, and she isn’t certain how much of it is hers and how much belongs to the others catching on to her odd emotional outburst.

There’s another child? Someone else had made it back? But who? And _how_? Solas had practically shoved her through a fold in time to get her here and she doesn’t remember anyone else being alive in the general vicinity for him to push through after her.

The concern and surprise are replaced by excitement and curiosity and she’s letting out happy giggles as she reaches for Desire’s face. She needs to meet this second mysterious forest baby as soon as possible! “Take me to them!” She tries to say, but all that comes out is, “Daba bana da!”

“She’s talking!” Desire exclaims, and Victory appears beside her immediately, grabbing her from Desire’s arms.

“What was that, little heart? Say it again for your father.”

“ _Ba_.” She calls out emphatically. Can’t he see that she is trying to have a conversation here? She turns to Desire again, “Bana da!”

After several minutes of Victory and the other two trying to coax her to speak more she settles for grumpily glaring at them all. No one is taking her seriously here. She wishes that she could find a spirit. She feels like she’d have a better chance getting one of them to translate her questions for her, even if it probably wouldn’t get her anywhere. No one would believe that a tiny baby was capable of that level of reasoning.

Which just frustrates her even more. But it gives her time to organize her thoughts and what she’s going to do with this news. Another survivor…a possible ally in all this confusion and chaos.

And if they _are_ from Olwyn’s time, the question becomes who they had been there. Because if by some horrible and ironic turn of events Corypheus has been reborn as a child of Elvhenan then she now has another problem on her hands. She needs more information before she begins jumping to conclusions. She doesn’t even know if the other person is _from_ her time, though it’s hard to imagine another baby with absolutely no connection to her time somehow being left in the woods.

She also can’t even walk yet, so she needs to take that into account.

But it’s a start. It’s something she can latch on to. A goal to go toward. Find out who it is and go from there. For the first time in months she feels like she’s going in the right direction.

A selfish little part of her hopes it’s someone she knows. An even more selfish and deluded part hopes it’s Cullen but she knows it won’t be. He hadn’t been there in the end. He had died a year before, during one of the last full scale battles of the war. It won’t be Cullen, no matter what.

_I’d gotten so good at not thinking about him_ , she sniffles, then promptly bursts into tears.

It takes half an hour to get her to stop crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everybody for your kudos and comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Olwyn speaks and learns she has grandparents.

Being a baby is the most frustrating thing that has ever happened to her. She can’t talk—not coherently—can’t walk, and can’t use magic. All things that are extremely important for survival in a world full of ancient elf dictators. There’s also the little problem of inheriting the impulse control and emotional threshold of an infant. She could _really_ do without that part.

She doesn’t like being dependent on others. It reminds her too much of her time at the Circle, where her livelihood rested on the whim of her captors. She knows it isn’t an entirely fair comparison. Victory and Aelynthi love her and would be horrified to think she would ever fear for her safety with them, she is certain.

More than fearing for herself, she feels helpless. She finally has some clue as to what she should do in this world—find this other mysterious forest baby and discover their intentions—and she can’t do anything with the information. She cannot ask anyone to tell her more about them, or go find them herself.

She is definitely working on expanding her mobility, and can crawl for a few feet rather than just blindly flail and wiggle in place. It takes a significant amount of energy to do even that though. Now she understands why babies sleep so much.

She tries to listen in for any information regarding this mysterious baby, tries to see if any of the spirits will tell her, but aside from Purpose, none of the other spirits seem fully able to comprehend her thoughts. They remark upon odd musings she has, flits of emotions that they deem strong and peculiar in a child, but her detailed, private thoughts remain private.

For once in her life, she wishes Cole were there to crack open her head and voice her questions to everyone else for her. Purpose tries hard on that front, when it is near her. But even it cannot fully understand her, just her strong sentiments and need to _do_ what she was sent here for. It has gleaned the basic premise of it, but not the full picture. She should be glad for that, she supposes. She does not need a spirit going to one of the evanuris painting a villainous picture of Solas as a rebel leader who causes the destruction of the people. The evanuris would kill him outright if they believed it were true, she knows.

And as frustrating as he is—was— _is_?—she still rather likes him alive more than she does dead.

And for some reason, Victory dislikes Purpose, so any time Purpose tries to see her when she’s at the peacekeeper compound it is promptly driven off. She thinks it is more that Victory dislikes spirits in general being within the peacekeeper compound. There are very few of them that brave his anger, and they never stay long. She wishes she could ask him why he feels this way. He was a spirit once, she knows, so she cannot see why he does not like them.

There are spirits abound in Aelynthi’s workshop. There are so many that the room always seems to be glowing with them. They enjoy playing with her while Aelynthi, Subtlety, and Nieven work. Although Aelynthi has been given time off from his duties he still sculpts from time to time, or simply oversees the larger pieces that have been requisitioned and are being handled by lesser known artists who are trying to show off their skills and perhaps join the ranks of Sylaise’ high-ranking artisans.

At least being a baby with nothing else to do gives her a chance to get to know her new parents, and to indulge in some overabundance of affection that she has not experienced for a very long while. She does not remember what it is like to be held, and cherished, and spoiled. Her childhood memories are tinged with fear and betrayal and loneliness, even the good moments. She likes to think that this is her chance to move past them. Aelynthi and Victory do not make it difficult to love them.

And over the next several months she learns quite a bit about them.

Victory is quick to anger but also quick to apologize. He is as explosive as Elgar’nan in that regard, though he does not burst into flame when he yells. But his voice booms and echoes, a voice that is made to be heard across battlefields, and so Olwyn hears it even when he is several rooms away, or in another section of the grounds. Aelynthi’s anger sits close to his skin, like armor, and he wears it for weeks after the fact. Even after Victory apologizes he will remain cool and aloof until he feels a sufficient amount of time has passed.

Victory is easy-going in all things but the law. He follows the rules and regulations the evanuris have set strictly, and punishes accordingly. His fellow peacekeepers respect him, but she sees the wary glances from some of Arlathan’s citizens when they walk the streets. She does not think they all have something to hide, but she knows the saying: everyone feels like a criminal when the guards are about.

Aelynthi enjoys gossiping with Nieven over the fashion of the city, or some new style of dress that has come into Sylaise’ court, or the changing regulations on appropriate color pigments allowed in mid-ranking portraiture works. Sometimes they talk about someone named Splendor, and even Subtlety rolls her eyes then.

Victory has many scars and he wears them proudly. She has not seen any other elves with scars. She supposes that with the healing magic they all possess it is no surprise. But Victory enjoys showing them off, signs of a battle hard won.

Aelynthi has back problems from hunching over while he works, and takes long baths at night to relax the aching muscles. Sometimes he lets Victory give him massages. Usually they wait until after they think Olwyn is asleep for that, because it never quite ends with just a massage.

She hopes they never find out that she is not always asleep and she can hear them well enough through the walls of her nursery even when she tries her hardest not to.

One of the most annoying things, however, are her constant visits to Elgar’nan’s principle holdings so that he can see her. Aelynthi nearly has a conniption the first time Victory bundles her up to take her to his canyon estate.

“It is too hot, and too dangerous, and too prone to random violent wildfires.” For some reason Olwyn thinks Aelynthi is talking about Elgar’nan more than the canyon estate. She grips the bars of her crib and begins the slow process of tugging herself into a standing position. She has been working very hard on standing. The sooner she can do that without falling over, the sooner she can begin walking.

“He would never harm a child.” Victory asserts, and looks rather irritated at the assumption. “And it is an order. If I did not hold my current position she would have been raised there from the start.”

“I am not going.” Aelynthi states angrily.

“Then I will take her alone.” Victory snaps back, and turns to begin packing her things. She looks between the two, sees the spike in panic from Aelynthi as he glances over at her. As if he is certain that Victory would capitulate on the topic somehow, someway, if he were to state his refusal to go with them.

Truthfully, Olwyn would prefer staying in Arlathan as well. Elgar’nan might have enjoyed giving her toys and odd candy during her initial stay, but he is _still_ a war-mongering, slave-owning tyrant king who enjoys setting criminals and malcontents on fire—yeah, she wasn’t supposed to know about that, but she’s very good at listening in to their arguments now.

“The—the magic of the eluvians will surely affect her growth!” Aelynthi sputters, trying to grasp at something. Olwyn begins shifting her weight on her feet, trying to decide if she should let go of the bars or not. Probably not unless she wants to embarrass herself.

“It will not.” Victory huffs. “You know it won’t.” He pauses, frowning, “What are you afraid of, vhenan?”

Aelynthi seems to collapse in on himself at those words. “What if he decides to keep her? Look at her, Victory. She is perfect. Who would not wish to take her from us?”

Perfect is hardly the word she’d use to describe herself, and while it is flattering, she doesn’t have the time to feel good about herself for it. She’s too fixated on Aelynthi’s worry and the softening of Victory’s hard resoluteness as he walks over to Aelynthi and bends down to press their foreheads together.

“He will not take her.” He says evenly, kindly. “El’ena is not the first baby to be born in Elgar’nan’s lands. He did not steal them either.”

Aelynthi looks entirely unconvinced.

And truthfully, there _are_ times over the next few months when they visit that she thinks Elgar’nan is deeply considering just keeping her. She speaks her first coherent word during one of those visits. She’s started walking by this point, tiny little steps that do not take her far if she does not have something to hold on to. Elgar’nan is sitting a few feet away, arms outstretched for her to walk into.

Victory stands on the other side of the room, talking with some of Elgar’nan’s local peacekeepers, but his eyes fall on her tiny form often, and she sees him cross his arms to keep himself from reaching for her when she stumbles.

And stumble she does, quite often. Elgar’nan catches her before she face-plants rather spectacularly. “It is alright, I have you,” He nearly coos, and she turns to him and flatly says, “No.” Before pushing away to try and walk toward Victory.

“She is independent and determined.” Elgar’nan nods in approval as she continues to frown and make her shaky way forward. “She gets that from me.”

She trips and hits the ground with a gurgled cry. Elgar’nan and Victory are both beside her in a matter of seconds, and she can see Victory hesitate when Elgar’nan grabs her in his arms. “No.” She says again, sniffling. It did not necessarily hurt, and really she’s more surprised than anything else. Surprised that Elgar’nan has somehow decided he’s her adopted grandfather and has managed to pass down his own genetic predispositions to a strange baby he found in the woods that has no biological relation to him at all.

“She is strong as well.” Elgar’nan continues to praise her, rubbing her nose with his own.

She contemplates puking on him. She wonders if he’d think her cute if she vomited on his pretty hair. No, he’d probably just set her on fire, and that wouldn’t fix anything. She wouldn’t even get the satisfaction of his disgust because she’d likely be burning alive at that point.

“No.” She settles on, because it is an easy word to pronounce and she can’t quite say what she really wants to for many reasons.  

She is quite convinced that Elgar’nan is an idiot.

* * *

 

Victory does not have any parents, being an embodied spirit, but Aelynthi does.

“My mother wishes to see El’ena.” Aelynthi comments one evening, as they are giving Olwyn a bath. Bathing was…interesting the first few times. There’s just some unnerving about two grown men and a baby naked in a bathtub, especially when said baby is really a thirty-year-old woman. She’s gotten oddly used to bath time by now, though. It helps when the two of them don’t climb in with her. “I told her she must come here. I will not be taking El’ena to Andruil’s holdings.” Aelynthi frowns, showing Olwyn just how he feels about Andruil and her home.

Victory groans. “I suppose she will be less of a problem than Melarue.”

“My nanae is perfectly normal. I do not know why you have decided they are more dangerous than one of Andruil’s _hunters_.” Aelynthi rolls his eyes. “But speaking of them, nanae also wishes to see her.”

“El’ena is not going into that place,” Victory responds hotly, pausing in massaging some soap into Olwyn’s curls.

“I _grew up_ in that place.” Aelynthi replies dryly, but there is a hint of warning in his tone. As if he is daring Victory to say more.

“The pleasure district is no place for a baby,” Victory says sternly, as if it is the end of the argument.

Aelynthi’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, and Olwyn looks worriedly between the two. Being naked seems to be dwindling quickly in her list of concerns. “Fine,” Aelynthi murmurs coolly. “I will inform both my mother and nanae that they are only allowed to see their granddaughter _here_ where you can keep her safe from them.”

“That is not what I meant.” Victory retorts, and Olwyn wishes she could be anywhere else right now. She splashes the water a little, to try and get their attention back on her and not on a fight that seems like it has happened many times before this. “Okay?” She murmurs, one of her new words she’s learned this week.

“Of course we are ok, little heart.” Aelynthi soothes. “Your babae simply needs to apologize for being so rude.”

“I am not apologizing.” Apologizing is probably too much like losing to him, except Olwyn would like to point out that he _always_ apologizes first when they get into arguments. The only time he allows himself to be defeated easily.

“You took her to see Elgar’nan. I will take her to see her _real_ grandparents.” Aelynthi drawls. “And you need to apologize. It will set a good precedent for the baby. People who are wrong should always apologize first, El’ena.”

Olwyn watches the muscles in Victory’s jaw twitch as he grits his teeth. “I am not _wrong_.”

“You are simply mad because neither my mother or my nanae are intimidated by you and your position.” Aelynthi lets out an exasperated sigh. “Really Victory, this is a ridiculous thing to argue about. They are her grandparents.”

“They will not be a good influence.” Victory mutters petulantly.

Elgar’nan _isn’t a good influence_ , Olwyn thinks silently. _All he wants to do is burn heretics. Did I mention that in my time I was considered the chosen one of a mortal god? I bet he’d find_ that _pretty heretical. You can’t go setting everyone who doesn’t agree with you on fire. It’s rude. And lethal._

“And why not?” Aelynthi asks, and the warning tone is back. Olwyn wishes that Victory would just realize he was entering dangerous territory and apologize already before Aelynthi decides to skewer him with a paintbrush. Paint might not be Aelynthi’s chosen medium, but he might make an exception if he decides that Victory’s blood makes a pretty enough red. “Are you insinuating that I was negatively influenced by them as well?”

“Of course not!”

“Then why would she be any different?”

Victory sputters, as if he cannot think of a proper comeback, before he blurts out, “Because your father is not here to balance them out like he was with you. Your father was the only good one among them.”

_Andraste’s tits, babae_ , Olwyn internally groans. _You are going to get your butt kicked and I won’t even feel bad about it. That was unnecessary_. And cruel. It was very cruel, even if Olwyn doesn’t know the whole story. And judging by the look on Victory’s face, he knows it as well. As if he regrets speaking the words as soon as they left his mouth.

“Perhaps that is why he is dead.” Aelynthi whispers, and the temperature in the room seems to drop exponentially. Olwyn reaches out a hand, “Sad?”

Aelynthi blinks, cold anger and hurt melting to be replaced by worry. He lifts Olwyn out of the water and holds her close, not caring that she’s getting water and soap all over his tunic. “It is alright, little heart. I am not angry with you. Papa will not be sad if you smile for him.”

Olwyn tries her hardest, gives the biggest smile she can, and pats his cheeks with her wet hands.

“Your Papa is angry with me.” Victory agrees, “We need to rinse the soap out of her hair.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry. I wish the words unsaid.”

Aelynthi sighs softly. “I know.”

“…okay…?” Olwyn asks in the strained silence.

“Okay.” Aelynthi nods. He looks over at Victory and gives a small smile. “Okay.” But the hurt is still there, shining in his eyes, and it will be days before that hurt fades fully.

Victory nods, reaching over to press a kiss to his temple. Aelynthi scrunches his nose as he usually does when Victory kisses him there, but does not pull away. Victory trails his lips down lower and Aelynthi snorts, “If you poke me in the eye with your giant nose I’m going to take it back.”

Olwyn lets out a peal of laughter, and soon Victory and Aelynthi join in, as bright and colorful as the rainbow bubbles that float around the room.

* * *

Aelynthi may have said he was alright, but he remains moody for the entire week. And as his mood sours, Victory starts sending him gifts. The first is a bouquet of crystalline flowers, their petals made of jade and their stems and leaves pressed gold. Aelynthi places them in a glass vase atop the bedside table in his rooms.

The second is a new fish for Aelynthi’s aquarium. The glass tank takes up an entire wall in the workshop and is full of gorgeous scaled creatures, some of which Olwyn recognizes but most of which she does not. The new fish is white with thin, red stripes and large fan-like fins that ripple in the water as it moves.

The third is a new chisel with a delicately engraved handle that likely cost a fortune. When he unwraps it, Olwyn sends him a level stare that he seems to understand. “Alright,” He agrees, “Perhaps I should stop being angry now before he decides to buy me anything else.”

Olwyn nods. “Yes.”

Aelynthi glances at the chisel. “It _is_ very pretty...”

Olwyn glowers.

“Very well,” He leans over and taps her on the nose. “How did you learn to say so much without saying anything at all?”

“You,” Olwyn responds easily, and it takes several minutes before Aelynthi stops laughing.

* * *

She is going to do it. She is going to make it across the room this time.

Olwyn lets out a huff of air and takes a step. Her legs hold, but she can feel them wobbling. She feels her center of balance begin to shift as she tilts backwards, but a large hand keeps her upright. Victory smiles down at her, “You are getting much better.”

_I still can’t make it more than two steps without falling flat on my face_ , she thinks irritably. She doesn’t see this as much of an accomplishment. Still, she grips the fingers he offers her as handholds and starts unsteadily forward once more.

“Come on little heart, I’ve got you.” Victory murmurs, steadying her as her legs threaten to give out on her. She presses her lips together in a resolute frown. She is going to get across this room if it kills her. She holds on tightly to Victory’s fingers as he leads her the next few steps. She manages three more and lets out a satisfied gurgle. Progress!

“Hup!” Victory lifts her a bit, placing her tiny feet on one of his own, both of them fitting easily on top, pale against his ebony skin. Olwyn looks down at them and wiggles her toes. Victory lifts his foot and her with it, and she lets out an excited giggle as he walks across the room that way.

Aelynthi looks up from his book and smiles, slow and warm.

The air in the room is clear and content, and Olwyn allows Victory to continue circling the room and when he stops, she looks up, “Again, babae.”

Victory stills, and she sees Aelynthi nearly drop his book as he leans forward. A large grin spreads across Victory’s face. “Say it again, little heart.”

“It?” Olwyn tries to hide her own laughter at his crestfallen look. She thinks that perhaps an infant with limited verbal skills should not understand the nuances of sarcasm, but neither of her parents seem to catch on to that.

Victory instead grabs her up in his arms. “Babae. _Babae_.”

She looks to Aelynthi. “Papa.” She manages, though it is a bit more difficult to get out. The ripple of happiness and excitement that spikes in the air is sharp and pronounced. He gets up and walks toward them.

Victory can’t seem to contain himself. “Yes. That is your papa. Now say _babae_ again, sweetling.”

She _could_ be mean and make him work for it, she knows. But she isn’t that cruel. She wrinkles her nose and grins. “Babae.”

Victory tosses her into the air and she shrieks in delight, and Aelynthi frets because “ _that was too high”_ but he does it anyway because Olwyn reaches out her hands and says, “ _Again_ babae!”

The night ends in laughter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everybody for your comments and kudos! It really means the world to me. Love you guys. :)
> 
> Alright, time skipping to slightly older Olwyn might start in the next chapter. I’ve also been thinking about some chapters from Aelynthi or Victory’s point of view. What do you guys think?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Olwyn meets her grandparents and properly summons fire.

They have put her in the rainbow pebble cloak again.

She _hates_ the rainbow pebble cloak.

She doesn’t know what it’s made of. Some kind of animal skin, she thinks, but the scales have the shape and texture of small stones in a multitude of colors from eggshell blue to a garishly cheerful yellow. Clothing made from this poor creature is the new trend in Sylaise’ court among the higher-ranking members, and instead of having something for himself commissioned from the hide he bought, Aelynthi had something made for her.

It is a monstrosity.

She’s also convinced that Aelynthi finds it as ugly as she does and has dodged an arrow by making her wear it instead, using his affection for his daughter as a shield against horrendous fashion. Well played, but not appreciated.

The only good thing about it is that despite its substantial weight, the material isn’t hot. Which is nice, because she spends most of her time toddling around the tiny penned off corner of the workshop they’ve set up for her. They’d set it up once she’d begun walking in earnest and had tried to escape through the front door.

It’s large enough for her to wander around, and it’s been filled with toys and other odd novelties that she supposes are meant to keep her busy. But now that she’s passed the stage of wanting to shove everything in her mouth they don’t hold much merit.

So she preoccupies herself by playing with the spirits that wander in, and testing her magical reserves. She’s been practicing tiny little spells, like making things glow, and while no one has noticed yet that she’s the culprit, there have been comments on why some of the pieces have begun to light up randomly throughout the day. It’s about all the magic she can focus at the moment, but she’s still proud of herself for managing even this much.

And she listens. Listens to the apprentices whisper among themselves about new laws, about the recent crackdowns by the peacekeepers among the lower city elves—accompanied always by furtive glances at Aelynthi, who either doesn’t hear or is pretending not to—about the upcoming festivals and the commissions they must finish for the tribute being held in four months’ time to commemorate some battle with the Nameless. She doesn’t know who the Nameless are, but they are spoken of with derision and fear.

She listens to Nieven, who tries to get off the topic of the Nameless and the upcoming celebrations when she overhears the apprentices gossiping, who scolds them when they don’t take the hint or speak too loudly that someone outside the workshop might hear. This usually takes the form of her offering scathing criticisms of their current works, scrapping pieces or shredding preliminary sketches and demanding they start again from the beginning.

She listens to Subtlety, who talks less than all the others but whose words are more full of hidden meaning and importance than all of them combined.

As she listens she learns the basics of the lives of artists in Arlathan, from the lowest ranks of young Elralei to Aelynthi’s position as one of Sylaise’ chief sculptors. She learns of the unmarked, the dredges of elvhen society, slaves who can be used as anyone sees fit, who are not protected by any law or any lawmakers.

She listens and it makes her angry and impatient to be bigger and able to fully use her magic to fight for them.

“You are still too little,” Purpose reminds her one afternoon as it hovers nearby, wisps of soft light tugging at the bows Aelynthi has placed in her hair. “You must be patient.”

Olwyn huffs, but doesn’t offer any objection. She can walk nearly the length of the room without falling, and string together simple commands and pronounce most words, but she can’t help anyone with that limited skill set. She can’t even confidently fight a _nug_ at this point, let alone one of the evanuris.

She settles for angrily eating several pieces of candy, imagining each one to be one of the tyrants as she chews furiously. The gooey centers pop in her mouth and make for a rather realistic representation. She gets distracted from her irritation by Nieven sweeping into the main floor from one of the smaller work rooms. She is carrying a portrait bust in her arms, nearly as large as she is.

When she gets to the center she promptly drops it to the floor, where the sound of shattering terracotta echoes. Several of the apprentices jump, and Olwyn nearly chokes on the candy she’s dubbed Mythal.

“Nieven!” Aelynthi scolds, “What on earth are you doing? You’ve startled El’ena!”

 _I’m alright_ , Olwyn thinks. _I want to know what’s gotten Nieven so angry she’s started throwing things._ “Okay,” She offers instead, going back to her snacks as she listens.

Nieven merely turns toward the assembled apprentices, many of whom are exchanging nervous glances. One of them is staring at the wreckage on the floor in horror.

“Imra!” Nieven snaps, rounding on the aforementioned apprentice. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“That took me three months!” Imra wails, waving their hands desperately in the air. “It was nearly finished!”

“Did you even _look_ at the model for that piece?” Nieven continues, hands on her hips. She glances upwards, as if mustering patience. “There was no likeness at all. What would have happened if we had given that piece to the customer, hm? Start over.”

“But the piece was to be finished by the spring equinox,” Imra whispers in dismay.

“Then you had best work quickly,” Nieven quips. She turns to the rest of the apprentices as she does so. “Don’t assume that just because a piece was commissioned by a lower rank that you can slack off. This workshop doesn’t allow for half measures. Do I make myself clear?”

There is a chorus of agreements as Imra continues to stare down at the remains of their work.

“Good.” Nievan nods, before letting out a dramatic sigh, “And Elralei will you please clean up this mess?” She gestures down at the shattered bust, “It’s an eyesore.”

Olwyn feels bad for Elralei, the poor boy being delegated to little more than a servant at this point. She also feels bad for Imra, but not as much. Imra had once handed her off to an elf intent on absconding with her and had nearly given Aelynthi a heart attack, and she’s still a little bitter about it.

Aelynthi shakes his head before turning back to the handful of sketches in his hands. He’s been looking the potential designs over for a while now, and places one down in front of Creativity. “There are too many ideas here. You are trying to convey too many thoughts and so the picture is not cohesive.”

Creativity sighs loudly and slumps over on the table. Olwyn hears him mumbling to himself and catches a few things, mainly “this is the sixth draft I’ve done in _two weeks_ ”.

A tiny bell chimes as someone enters the workshop, and a handsome, dark-haired elf walks across the threshold. “Alright, where is the darling little beastie?”

“Mother!” Aelynthi gives Creativity an encouraging pat on the shoulder before walking toward the tall woman dressed in hunting leathers. “I was not expecting you until the end of the week.” Olwyn watches the woman’s sharp eyes soften slightly as she hugs Aelynthi brusquely, pulling away to glance over him as if inspecting him for any injuries. Olwyn knows that look well. Aelynthi does the same any time she’s out of his sight for more than a few minutes.

“My Lady sent me off early after our last hunt when I mentioned I was visiting my new granddaughter,” The woman shrugs, still looking around the workshop before her eyes land on Olwyn. “There she is.” She strides across the room quickly, and Olwyn notices that all the spirits have scattered at her entrance, even Purpose. The woman crouches down next to the pen and studies her.

Olwyn studies back. Everything about Aelynthi’s mother is broad. Broad shoulders, broad face, broad lips stretched in a slow, amused grin. The pupils of her eyes are shaped like a jungle cat’s, and as she smiles, Olwyn can see that her canines are longer and sharper than normal. She wears Andruil’s vallaslin in olive green. The color against her tan skin makes the marks seem more like an animal’s camouflage than slave markings. “Hello there.”

Olwyn blinks. “Hi,” she says finally.

The hunter raises an eyebrow, “She’s smart for being so small. It was the same with Uthvir’s child.”

Olwyn perks up at that. That’s right, if her grandmother is a servant of Andruil that means she knows the other forest baby! Olwyn lifts up her arms in the universal symbol of “pick me up please” and Aelynthi’s mother obliges easily enough.

“Don’t go tugging on my ears now, little beastie. Your father used to do it all the time.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Aelynthi rolls his eyes.

Her grandmother flashes him a grin before looking back down at Olwyn in her arms. She is surprisingly gentle when she holds her. Olwyn had expected someone so rough and strong looking to handle her with less finesse. Then again, she _is_ Aelynthi’s mother, so she must have had some practice with him. “What is her name?”

“El’enavhenan.”

His mother snorts. “You let the giant idiot name her, didn’t you?”

“It is a good name,” Aelynthi defends hotly. Aelynthi seems to run on the idea that only he is allowed to call Victory names.

Andruil’s servant lets out a small laugh, “Very well.” She looks to the apprentices who are watching curiously, a few looking apprehensive at the sight of the hunter. “It seems like you have quite a bit of work left to do. I’ll take El’ena for a walk.”

Aelynthi looks like he wants to object on principle. He eyes Olwyn worriedly, but merely sighs and nods. Olwyn knows he likely trusts his mother to keep her safe, but he seems unable to keep from worrying about anyone watching his daughter other than himself. “Of course.”

It doesn’t feel quite like a kidnapping, but a bit more like a hunter making off with their newest kill to be gutted and skinned. And there is a terrifying moment that she thinks it’s actually going to happen when her grandmother glares down at her cloak and promptly pulls it off of her. “This is ugly.”

Olwyn’s panic at the thought of being turned into a pair of leather boots dissolves quickly. “Yes,” She agrees, shooting the cloak a disparaging look.

“Perhaps we shall misplace it on our walk.” Her grandmother murmurs, shifting her grip so she can fully pull the cloak off.

Olwyn agrees with this plan 100%, but she doubts that Aelynthi would appreciate it. He’d paid quite a bit for that ridiculous piece of material. She reaches out with her tiny hands and grasps the cloak, “Imma keep it.”

Her grandmother looks dubiously at that, but tucks the cloak in the crook of her elbow and doesn’t mention getting rid of it again. “Well, now that grandma Faunalyn’s got you,” Her grandmother continues as they head down the street, “where shall we go, hm?”

“Forest baby.” Olwyn tries, unsure how exactly to go about asking Faunalyn for information.

“Yes you are,” Faunalyn agrees as she turns another corner. “I wonder if you remember who put you there. Doubtful, I suppose. Babies cannot remember such things. Lavellan did not remember either.”

“Lablan?” Olwyn asked. “Other baby?” Lavellan is not a name she knows, but that does not mean anything. Likely the baby had been named by their parents. They would not go by their real name.

“I almost entered that tournament, you know.” Faunalyn explains, though Olwyn thinks it’s more to herself than because she’s trying to have an actual conversation with an infant. “But I’ve had my fill of raising babies. And I don’t think I’d enjoy trying to raise one with just your grandnanae this time.” Her gaze turns wistful, in that way most adult elves seem to have when they look at her. But with her cat-eyes, the look comes off a little more like a leopard looking at its next meal. Olwyn shifts a little uncomfortably.

“How old?” Olwyn continues, “Other baby?”

“Forest babies are very talkative,” Faunalyn asserts, “Your father was not nearly so eloquent at your age. Are you repeating my words or do you really understand what you’re asking, I wonder?”

“Other baby how old?” Olwyn repeats sternly. When is she going to reach the age when her questions and extensive vocabulary are going to be taken seriously?

“Lavellan wouldn’t stop asking after you either, when she heard that another baby had been found.” Faunalyn’s eyes narrow as she peers into her eyes, “You two do not look similar…and your ears are not the proper shape. What happened to your ears, beastie?”

 _Nothing_ , Olwyn thinks, mind racing with the new information. So this Lavellan is an elf. And female. Sera? No, she would know if it were Sera. She doubts Sera would have managed to cope well with all of this. Survive? Yes. Sera has survived on her own for years and is no stranger to hard and turbulent times. But managing to live this long without Olwyn hearing of any terrible accidents—a jar of bees in Andruil’s bedchamber perhaps? Unlikely.

“When you’re older I’ll take you out of the city and teach you how to hunt things.” Faunalyn looks down the street, as if she can see the wilderness that lies beyond the white city. “Aelynthi never enjoyed it, but perhaps you will. It is good to know how to fight.”

Olwyn nods. Yes. The more she knows and the stronger she is, the better her chances are of being able to protect them all from the evanuris. But if Faunalyn is a servant of Andruil and this Lavellan is in her lands as well… “Take now?” She asks.

Faunalyn huffs. “Your father would kill me if I took you more than a few streets away, little beastie.” She shakes her head. “Not yet. Wait a bit longer.”

Wait. That’s all anyone tells her to do. She is sick and tired of waiting. Who knew that being a baby would be so infuriating? Then again, she doesn’t know if this Lavellan is safe or not. She could be a shem-hating murderess for all Olwyn knows. That would really put a dent in things. She really hopes they’re more ally material than hindrance, because she’s going to need someone else to help her in this endeavor.

Maybe it’s Briala? If it were Briala she’d have no worries. Briala was whip smart and knew how to play politics. Also she liked Briala as a person, which helped. Or maybe it was Dalish, from Bull’s Chargers. Dalish would be an amazing hunter. Dalish had always kind of intimidated her though, so she isn’t sure how well they’d work together. At least she knew her though.

She continues going through a list of all the elves she knows, and she’s nearly finished by the time Aelynthi finds them walking back to the workshop.

* * *

Aelynthi’s nanae is so beautiful they are terrifying. Not in the way Sylaise is, all perfect and symmetrical and oddly unnatural. Melarue’s beauty is androgynous and sharp and intimidating. Like all the dangerous opulence of Halamshiral wrapped in one person.

They wear long robes of delicate flowing silks that are nearly transparent, and jewelry hangs from every available surface. Their black hair is pinned up in an intricate design and pinned into place with a gold and jade comb shaped like a spider with eight tiny diamonds for eyes.  

Olwyn wonders what Aelynthi’s father must have been like, to have raised a child with people like Faunalyn and Melarue. Because while Faunalyn was a hunter trained to track and kill, Olwyn has no doubt in her mind that Melarue could kill just as easily.

Like the spider tucked in their hair. Trap and ensnare and poison and feast upon some poor victim. They smell like elemi oil, a heady scent that clings to them and the air around them. Their eyes are a calm grey, and the wear Sylaise’ vallaslin in a purple so dark it is nearly black.

Aelynthi does not look like their nanae, but he shares some of their demeanor. The hidden steel. And the withering glares. And the sense of style.

The idea of prostitution in ancient elvhenan is not one she thought she’d ever have to think about. But she gleans from conversations and heated arguments between Aelynthi and Victory that grandnanae Melarue is a much-sought after courtesan of some rank who lives in the pleasure district of Arlathan.

It makes sense, that there would be prostitutes. No society seems completely without the sale of sex. But Melarue does not seem to mind their job, and no one looks down on them for it. Perhaps lovemaking and seduction are simply skills like painting and sword work to the ancient elves.

She doesn’t dwell on it, and doesn’t have much time to do so as Melarue picks her up and places her in their lap for inspection. “At least you do not look like Victory,” they say finally in a low voice, scratchy as a cat’s purr.

“Why do you and mother dislike him so much?” Aelynthi sighs, going back to his work. He is making some preliminary designs on a statue for Sylaise’ central gardens. It has not been commissioned yet, but Sylaise had mentioned how she would like a new piece during their latest visit to her tower, and so Aelynthi has begun designing one just in case.

“It is the only thing Faunalyn and I agree upon,” Melarue comments offhandedly, “Let us have our fun. I have no doubt he holds us in similar regard. Is that not why he’s made himself scarce?”

Well, that’s true. At least Melarue does not seem to care that their son-in-law thinks they are a danger. Then again, from what she has seen of Melarue, they probably thrive off the knowledge. And Victory _had_ mentioned that he would remain at the peacekeeper barracks until Melarue was finished with their visit.

“I wish you would all try and get along, at least.” Aelynthi replies, frowning as he looks between two designs.

“Your mother and I have mastered the art of tolerating one another. Your husband will have to learn soon enough, for when El’ena comes of age.” Melarue muses, looking Olwyn over. “She will be beautiful.”

That was flattering, coming from the living epitome of haughty grandeur itself.

“No one is touching El’ena,” Aelynthi snaps, before reconsidering. “At least not until she wishes to be touched.” He does not seem to enjoy the idea of it happening at all.

 _If it makes things any easier, papa, I am actually a grown woman. I know what to look for._ She blinks a few times, and feels that familiar, heavy sorrow rise up into her chest. She doesn’t think she’ll be looking for anyone. Not when all she’ll be looking for is Cullen and knowing that he’ll never be there.

“Oh dear,” Melarue murmurs, sensing the shift in Olwyn’s mood and bouncing her on their knees. “Has our talk upset you? Do not worry, I do not hate your babae. I merely think he is a simpleton.”

“That is not helping, nanae.” Aelynthi mutters. He winces as he straightens in his seat, rubbing a hand along the base of his spine. “I’ve been sitting for too long.”

“Perhaps we should go for a walk in the gardens.” Melarue suggests, taking Olwyn with them when they stand. Their arms are surprisingly sturdy for being so thin. “You should not spend so much time bent over your work.”

Olwyn preoccupies herself with examining the multitude of bracelets on Melarue’s arm. They coil up like snakes to their elbow, and some are gold and some are a metal she does not know. They hum with magic. She wonders what kind. She begins fiddling with it, trying to see if she can get some sort of reaction. But the magic lies dormant against her inelegant fumbling.

“How was your visit with your mother?” Melarue asks as the three of them head out of Aelynthi’s apartments and down the street toward the public gardens. “I hope she did not scare the child.”

“Mother was perfectly agreeable.” Aelynthi drawls, “And _she_ waited to begin insulting you until her visit was almost through.”

Melarue nods, “She was always more patient than I was.”

* * *

She practices her magic in secret, in the dead of night in her nursery attached to Victory’s bedroom. By the time she’s three she’s managed to summon fire with relative ease. Fire had always been her strength, so it is no surprise to her that it comes to her first before anything else.

She twists the flames until they look like the fish that Aelynthi keeps in the large glass tank in his workshop and sends them lazily swimming through the air. She doesn’t have as much control of them as she’d like—back when she’d been at the height of her magic at Skyhold she’d been able to make them do tricks with only a tiny gesture. Now she must move her whole arm and they are not as graceful in their maneuverings as she’d like.

Still, her room is aglow and she feels as close to her old self as she has in a long, long while.

“El’ena!”              

She nearly sets the room on fire at Aelynthi’s gasp. She turns toward the doorway where her parents stand, and her fire fish turn to smoke. Panic spikes in the air around her and she knows it is her own. Her mind has taken her to her room in Ostwick, where she freezes the bathwater and her mother bursts into tears.

They’re going to send her to the Circle. They’re going to lock her away because they are afraid and ashamed and—

Victory grabs her in a crushing hug and Aelynthi lets out a soft, delighted laugh. “Oh El’ena that was _beautiful_.” He turns to Victory, “Did you see it? Did you see what she did with the flames?”

“I did,” Victory is busy peppering her face with kisses. “She’s a genius.”

“Have you been practicing in secret?” Aelynthi asks her, as she tries to push Victory’s face away with a frown as he smooshes his lips to her forehead and she wrinkles her nose. Her heart is beating rapidly in her chest, ramming against her ribcage and she’s finding it hard to gather herself. Her emotions are a jumbled mess as she tries to make sense of what’s happening.

 _This is Victory and Aelynthi, not my mother and father. They aren’t afraid. They aren’t going to hate me. They aren’t going to hate me for it, it’s ok, it’s ok,_ she repeats over and over, taking in several large lungfuls of air. She can feel tears prickling the corners of her eyes as she whispers, in a voice that is uncertain and terrified, “You aren’t angry?”

And it’s absurd to think they would be. Everyone in this world uses magic. They are not afraid of it and she is not a danger because of it. There is no reason for them to be angry or ashamed.

“Of course not, little heart.” Aelynthi soothes, brow furrowing as he sees the tears in her eyes and the worry hanging over her. “Is that why you didn’t tell us? Were you afraid we would be angry?”

 _Yes_ , she thinks. Because all her life she has been taught to be ashamed of the one thing that had made her feel complete. She merely gives a tremulous nod.

“Oh da’vhenan.” Victory murmurs, crushing her to him. Aelynthi leans over and pets her hair, running his fingers through the thick curls. “We are so proud of you, El’ena.”

Proud. _Proud_. Proud of her magic. And it strikes her then, that these two love her like her parents should have—no, they _are_ her parents. They have raised her and accepted her and never once thought of her as anything but their own. She does them a disservice by thinking of them as anything but the same.

“Papa,” She hiccups, “Babae.” She bursts into happy tears at their praise, and it takes an hour or so of her parents’ worried fluttering and assurances to calm her.

* * *

“Duckling!”

“Desh!” Olwyn calls back as she gets to her feet and runs over to the large peacekeeper standing in the doorway. She does not make it far before she is scooped up in a warm hug. Ever since she began walking in earnest she has followed Desire around asking questions about Lavellan and really anything she can think to ask. Her trailing after other elves until they give her the answers she wants has earned her the nickname.

She likes Desire. Desire answers her questions without being condescending. She also sneaks Olwyn sweets when Victory and Aelynthi aren’t looking. Olwyn is getting a little big to be carried around, but Desire doesn’t seem to mind as she braces her on her hip and heads toward the bench Olwyn had been sitting on. “What have you been doing while I was away?”

“Staff practice,” Olwyn announces proudly. After months of pleading she’s managed to convince Victory to let her handle one. The peacekeepers seem to find her training with them in the courtyard “adorable” and spend most of the time fixing her stance or showing her a few easy moves.

That’s fine with her, because she needs to build up some more muscle if she’s going to handle anything with more weight. Now that she can walk and talk—though she has to remind herself that waxing poetic as a four-year-old is probably not a smart idea so she tries to keep it a little simple—she’s ready to take on the world. The sooner she trains, the sooner she gets stronger, and the sooner she’ll be able to figure out what is going on in the world and begin fixing it.

“Oh?” Desire sits down on the bench next to her. “You want to learn to fight?”

Olwyn nods. “My grandma promised that she’d have a battle staff made for me if I learned how to use one.” It’s disconcerting, not having a weapon close at hand to defend herself with, even though she knows that she’s probably the most protected person in Arlathan at the moment.

And the sooner she shows she’s capable of defending herself, the sooner she’ll be allowed to go to Andruil’s holdings and track down this Lavellan.

Things would have gone quicker if Aelynthi would let her visit grandma Faunalyn. It would be much easier to get information that way. But Aelynthi is adamant that she not set foot in Andruil’s holdings preferably _ever_ but realistically not until she can effectively incinerate an army.

 _I’m getting there papa,_ she thinks. And truthfully, she’s quite pleased with her progress. Now that she practices her magic openly, she’s improved quite a bit. Victory boasts to everyone about her skill with fire. Elgar’nan seems ready to throw a city-wide celebration when she produces several floating fireballs at his behest. She begins to see where Victory has gotten the behavior from. He _is_ the culmination of Elgar’nan’s victories against the Nameless in the last war, after all, so she supposes he must have picked up something from him during that time.

At least it was that, and not the desire to kill everyone in fiery fits of vengeful rage.

She doesn’t show Elgar’nan anything more than that, however. He does not need to know the extent of her skills. It will be better for her in the long run if she is underestimated. He will praise and coo and enjoy her talent now, but how will he feel when she is far older and she has mastered flame— _his_ element? She doubts he will be heaping praises on her then.

“Where’s Purpose?” Desire asks, glancing around the training yard. The spirit rarely leaves Olwyn’s side nowadays.

“Babae chased it off earlier.” Olwyn sighs, “It will be back tonight when he is asleep.”

Desire laughs, before she reaches into her pocket. “Oh, I have something for you. Uthvir’s Lavellan wanted you to have it.”

Olwyn stills, as Desire hands her an object wrapped in a handkerchief. She unwraps it and stares down at the object in her lap. A simply wooden toy. Nothing conspicuous at all. It is in the shape of a bear. It is not the object itself that makes her hands shake, but the single sentence carved in common along its stomach, so small and subtle that the words could be mistaken for fur.

_Do you speak the trade tongue?_

Her mouth goes dry. She has hoped, hoped beyond reason that this other abandoned child is from her time but she has always braced herself for the worst. To have the proof in front of her now…she swallows and lets out a shaky breath, “…I want to give her something back. To say thank you. Will you help me send it?”

Desire nods, watching her curiously. “Of course.”

Olwyn dashes off to her rooms and begins scrambling for something she can cut or carve. Her heart hammers in her chest as she returns to Desire ten minutes later with a simple wooden block. Each of its surfaces are covered in a different floral pattern. Desire takes it, promising to have it sent to Lavellan. She seems amused at Olwyn’s insistence that the toy be sent to Lavellan immediately.

Desire ruffles her hair. “She will be happy that you liked her gift so much.”

Olwyn nods.

Later that night, she lies awake in her bed, going over the four words she’d carved along the length of a flower petal.

_Yes. Who are you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than I thought it would. Lots of characters appeared, but I had to get the grandparents in before she became too old. Now I have a bit of leisure time with them all. Aelynthi’s parents are wonderful people, though his father was definitely the kindest and most level-headed one. Faunalyn likes skinning things and I’m fairly certain that Melarue has killed someone with a rusty spoon at least once in their lifetime. Also, Thenvunin’s mother designs all of Melarue’s robes.
> 
> I am not going to lie, I almost gave Uthvir and Thenvunin Blackwall, just because I wanted Olwyn to freak out and be like, “Hey remember that time I told you that you needed to be true to yourself and honest and never pretend to be someone that you aren’t ever again? I am going to need you to pretend to be someone that you aren’t. Big time. You cannot go around telling anyone about your past. You are a tiny, defenseless, immortal elf baby now, alright? Alright. Good.” But then I wanted someone to be a bit older than her and Lavellan + sharkbait is love so…sticking with that.


	6. Aelynthi x Victory Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Aelynthi and Victory's relationship.

The first time Aelynthi sees Victory it is a spirit. Young and new and eager.

The latest war against the Nameless has come to a close, and the celebrations within the city are in full swing after an afternoon of rituals and dedications.

He is not in a celebratory mood, but he promised his nanae that he would make an appearance at the grand party they are hosting for the occasion. He knows it is not because his nanae wishes him to enjoy himself. It is to hold his nanae back, to keep them from making a mistake, from saying something they will regret.

To remind them to keep the grief and anger from their face while the rest of the city celebrates.

He will do this for his nanae; he will be miserable, but he will do it. Being together is better than being alone on nights like these, even if they must pretend to be happy. He knows that the two of them are not the only ones putting on masks of joy tonight.

It is not as comforting a thought as it should be, perhaps.

He spends the trek from the artist’ district to the pleasure district examining the new spells on the stonework of the streets. Each brick lights up when stepped upon, and tiny wisps lift into the air in their wake, like fireflies in a forest clearing. It is a new bit of magic placed upon them for the celebrations and will fade by the end of the week. As short and brutal as the creatures they aim to imitate.

The carved ivory gate of the pleasure district looms in the distance, and all around him he hears the singing and drunken shouts of revelers. Someone nearly crashes into him, tugging another flushed city-goer behind them with a peal of high-pitched laughter.

He sidesteps and almost collides with a hulking spirit that emerges from a side street. It takes up nearly the entire opening, and while he knows he could easily walk through it he stops himself. Sometimes it is best not to do so, when you do not know what kind of spirit it is. They can pass on some residual feelings by accident, and there are several spirits that would be a dangerous thing to be influenced by at the moment.

He slips through an opening between the giant spirit and the wall and continues onward.

“You are not happy.”

Aelynthi turns slowly, frowning. It is the spirit. It hovers close, overwhelming in its size and its brightness. It is like looking directly at the sun. So proud. Nearly bursting with it. Aelynthi averts his gaze. “Must I be?”

“We won.” It asserts. “It is a time of celebration. The People were victorious.”

And Aelynthi knows the spirit now. Has heard tales of Elgar’nan’s victories taking shape and leading the charge in those last few battles. “Yes,” Aelynthi agrees, and his tone is scathing and sharp. “The People were victorious indeed.” He makes to leave. Anger is building in the back of his throat, sour and acidic. It is not safe to speak here, to allow himself to feel anything but joy.

“You did not wish for victory?”

Aelynthi pauses, “I do not care for the cost of it.” He leaves before the spirit can ask anything else.

* * *

The party is in full swing when he arrives. High-ranking artisans and war heroes line the halls, exclaiming over the pieces of artwork lining the atrium, or the living tableaus of the pleasure district workers, artfully crafted by his nanae to entice and enthrall.

They stand in the center of it all, the queen in a court of poisonous peacocks, resplendent in a wisp of transparent white silk, body painted gold. Where they walk their ardent worshipers follow. Like the deep ocean fish from Aelynthi’s old books, their body a lure in the darkness, hiding the snapping jaws that await.

They spot Aelynthi and smile, holding out their arms for an embrace. Aelynthi obliges, careful not to smudge his nanae’s paint, pressing a kiss to the side of their cheek. Gold dust lingers on his lips.  “Nanae.”

“My dear son,” Melarue purrs, “I had expected you earlier.”

“I was delayed.” Aelynthi nods. He watches as his nanae waves off their entourage with little fanfare and steers him toward a quieter section of the main hall. 

“How are you feeling?” He broaches in a half whisper, eyes glancing around worriedly in case anyone were to overhear.

Melarue does not seem as perturbed, or they do not show it at least. They answer casually, eyes trained on the roving crowd spread out before them, but they give Aelynthi’s arm a comforting squeeze. “I am as well as I can be. Once the celebrations are over, we will speak more of it. We simply must endure until then.”

His nanae is good at that. Enduring. He wishes he could be the same. “I will not survive four more days of this,” He chokes out.

Melarue waves over a servant and grabs two fluted glasses of some sparkling alcohol and hands one to their son. “Yes you will.” They state. “You have too much of your mother in you not to.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a compliment.” Aelynthi manages to crack a smile, but it is brittle and sharp. “Should I tell her you think so highly of her?”

“There is no need to inflate her ego,” Melarue drawls. They make an offhanded comment to another passing servant about the music, and the lighting of one of the tableau stages, before turning back to their son. “Have you seen your mother lately?” _Have you spoken to her since it happened?_

“No.” He has had no chance to. Not with his mother at the forefront of Andruil’s lines, always away. She has not visited Arlathan in a century, and he has not visited her in Andruil’s lands for fifty years, at least. He does not even know if she _knows_. No, of course she would know. Melarue would have sent a letter, a message of some sort. To keep her from returning to the city with the hopes of reunion. So she would be prepared.

As if summoned, the large entrance doors open and his mother strides inside with several other hunters surrounding a dark-haired, golden-eyed woman.

Andruil.

His mother catches his nanae’s gaze and they share some kind of look that Aelynthi cannot decipher before Melarue shifts, fluttering robes hiding Aelynthi’s form as Andruil turns with Faunalyn toward them, “You look tired, my dear. Go rest in your old chambers.”

It is an order, not a request, with just a hint of steel behind the soft words. Aelynthi does not know what has caused them but he knows better than to ever question his nanae. He nods, “I will see you tomorrow?”

“I may be indisposed for the rest of the celebrations.” Melarue replies coolly, “We will speak when they are finished. Off with you, now.” They turn him toward one of the alcove passageways that line the hall.

The last thing Aelynthi sees before leaving the room is Andruil prowling toward their nanae, a dangerous smile curling her lips, “It has been a long while since I last enjoyed your company, Melarue.”

* * *

He does not see his nanae again until the celebrations are over, though his mother finds him on the second night and takes him back to a quiet garden and holds him tightly. It is the first time he sees his mother cry, and it is disconcerting but also comforting. He forgets, sometimes, that his mother and nanae can be weak as well. It feels good to cry together, to share their grief in the midst of all this joy.

“Nanae sent you a letter?” He whispers against her neck.

Her arms tighten around him, crushing him against her broader frame. “I am sorry I could not do more.” But there is little she could have done, her or nanae, despite their rank. In the end, it does not matter when faced with the whims of the evanuris.

His nanae does not cry, when they speak of it weeks later. But they hold him, and hum a soft song as he curls against their side on their large bed like he used to do when he awoke from a bad dream. 

And Aelynthi learns to lock the grief away behind walls and doors and chains of his own making, because he is not allowed to grieve the loss that led to victory, not where others can see.

He distracts himself with his work, and it helps. It is easy when he focuses on his pieces. He must become the people he is sculpting, in a way, and that means he cannot be himself with all his grief and bitterness.

He has seen Splendor before, both in Sylaise’ tower and his nanae’s halls. But it is the first time that Sylaise’ high-ranking general has ever entered this part of the artisan’s district, to his knowledge. The beautiful elf walks around the workshop floor, glancing at the unfinished works of the other artists, expression haughty and unimpressed.

He stops in front of Aelynthi’s latest portrait and pauses. “Your recent works have been well received. Your portraits in particular.” He had not realized word of his portraits had reached the higher ranks. Nieven tells him that they are talked about quite enthusiastically among the lower ranks because of their peculiarities, but he has never thought the higher ranks would wish to see what his portraits would bring out in them.

Aelynthi nods slowly. “Is there something you wish to commission?” From what he knows of Splendor, he does not think the portrait that will come of it will be something the other man will appreciate.

“Our Lady wishes for a piece.”

Aelynthi nearly freezes. _Sylaise_ wishes to commission him? He bows his head, throat dry. “W-what does Our Lady wish for?” A portrait of Sylaise? He hopes dearly that is not the case. He does not know if he can lie well enough to himself to make an image she would like.

“A commemorative piece for her latest victory against the Nameless.”

He goes cold. That is no better than a portrait. It is too soon, the wound too raw for him to celebrate it.

“I know it is a large task,” Splendor crosses his arms and looks Aelynthi over with a decidedly unkind gaze. “Will it be a problem?”

Aelynthi shakes his head, swallowing to wet his throat. “No,” He manages, tries again, “I am honored. I will do my utmost to prove myself worthy of Our Lady’s favor. “

“See that you do.”

* * *

His first few attempts are…terrible.

He spends several weeks hunched over sketches until he decides that he must find other avenues for inspiration. He goes into Sylaise’ room of impressions in her new art theatre to see if his subconscious can help him envision a victory worthy of sculpting.

It all goes horribly wrong.

The image that is stuck in his head and that echoes across the room, flickering and reflecting off the walls like a hall covered in mirrors, is that of a pale, white-haired dancer atop a sacrificial altar. Dark eyes unblinking, life draining out onto the steps below. Hollow.

The price of victory.

It is not worth it.

He curls in on himself, eyes closed shut against the images twisting around him. The tears come unbidden, and he can only let them flow as he takes several shuddering breaths before dissolving into sobs.

He makes the piece, eventually. A lie. His first true masterpiece is a lie. It is full of glory and grandeur and everything that Aelynthi knows to be false.

Sylaise praises him personally, and elevates him to the circle of her highest ranking artists and gifts him with his own workshop near her tower.

He has never felt more of a sham.

* * *

Aelynthi does not drink much, but when he does, he finds himself gravitating toward Ess’ tavern. It is familiar ground, a quaint place he enjoys for the memories it evokes of nights spent here worrying over his first commissions. Love greets him upon entry but does not linger. 

And he _needs_ a drink, after the announcement that Sylaise plans to throw a gala to celebrate the day of their victory of the Nameless 500 years past. There is not overwhelming grief this time, but the spike of melancholy and bitterness that the announcement evokes has led him here.  He is not certain how long he will stay. Perhaps a few hours, before he goes to the pleasure district to distract himself more fully.

He is dressed comfortably, plain work clothes that are still covered half in dust and grit. Ess always feels uncomfortable when he appears dressed like he does for Sylaise’ court, and he cannot blame her entirely.

He is halfway through his second glass of something—he is not entirely certain what it is. He had simply asked Ess for a recommendation and taken what she offered—when the door opens and several peacekeepers pile inside, laughing loudly.

A once over shows that none of them hold much rank. Aelynthi glances at Ess who relaxes just a bit. Aelynthi is the highest ranking person in the tavern at the moment, which puts her at ease. It is one of the reasons he continues to come here, despite other establishments being closer to his new workshop.  

The peacekeepers are loud, and it seems as if they have been to quite a few taverns before arriving here. Aelynthi frowns over the rim of his glass.

A hand slams down onto the table beside him, and all of the bottles along the surface rattle. “A bottle of bloodwine—oh, it’s _you_.”

Aelynthi does not realize the peacekeeper is talking to him until they shift their large body onto the stool beside his own and lean forward. They take up more room than should be normal, and make the bottle in their hand look comically small in comparison.

Their skin is dark, nearly black in the dim lighting, and their hair is coiled atop their head in a chaotic mess. They are large and broad and well-muscled, with a scar above their left brow and another peeking out from beneath their shirt. They look to be male.

Aelynthi does not recognize him.

“I do not know you.” Aelynthi mutters. He is in no mood to talk to anyone. He just wishes to finish his drink and then head to the pleasure district. He has not seen Morwen in a long while, and he has always been good at distracting him.

The peacekeeper pauses at that, before giving a large smile as he leans forward even closer, close enough for Aelynthi to smell wine on his breath. “I did not have a body at the time.” His voice is low and deep.

Aelynthi’s brow furrows in confusion, before another peacekeeper comes over and throws an arm around the first one’s shoulders, “Victory! We need more wine!”

Victory? Ah. Aelynthi’s frown deepens and his eyes narrow. He downs the rest of his drink and places the glass back down on the counter with a nod to Ess before he makes to stand. A hand on his arm stops him from walking past. He glances down at the offending hand, nearly the size of his own head, and then to its owner.

Victory’s gaze is thoughtful. “You are not happy.”

His mind takes him back to the first time Victory spoke those words and he snorts. He wonders how he must look, if his distaste is so blatant upon his face that Victory does not need to crawl into his head as a spirit to know how he feels.

Aelynthi sees Ess tense on the other side of the counter. There is no need to put her in a difficult position. If he makes these peacekeepers angry they might take it out on her in some way. He relaxes in Victory’s grip before pulling away. Victory lets go easily enough. “I am fine. If you will excuse me…” He moves past him and exits the tavern moments later.

* * *

The less people Aelynthi cares for, the less people he will fear losing. He cannot dread the thought of someone disappearing from his life if he does not know them. The people he has now are enough—too many, perhaps. His nanae, his mother, his apprentice Nieven. And there are those whose losses would not cripple him but who would hurt all the same, such as Ess, or Morwen, or the few other bedmates he’s had over the years.

No more, he vows.

“We’ve almost finished the base carvings,” Nieven calls out, pulling him from his thoughts. She stands a few feet away, a cup of tea in both hands. She holds one of them out to Aelynthi, who takes it gratefully.

He looks to where the other apprentices work, bent over a massive slab of stone. One side of a set of doors for the entryway to the jeweler’s market. Aelynthi has tasked the apprentices with carving the basic forms for him to later detail and inset with gemstones. If none of them make any mistakes, they can finish it within five months.

He doubts it will go that smoothly, and there is the problem of the gem carver who seems intent on changing his designs every few weeks. The headache that had formed when he’d first been given the order has not left, and he doubts it will recede any time soon.

The tea helps, at least. He suspects that Nieven has put something in it for that very purpose. His headache eases with each sip, and so does the small ache that has begun at the base of his spine.

The front doors are shoved open so forcefully that they hit the wall with a thunderous bang. Aelynthi nearly jumps from his seat and he hears one of the apprentices yelp, and then the telltale sound of stone cracking. He does not even look to the doorway. He merely stares at the foot-long fissure creeping its way along the stone surface of their latest project and the terrified apprentice holding a chisel in mid-air.

“You _fool,_ ” Nieven rounds on them, the slap echoing against the high walls.

“Enough,” Aelynthi orders before Nieven can do more, and rounds on the intruder who has caused the mistake in the first place and comes up short.

It is the peacekeeper, Victory.

He stands in the doorway, glancing from the crying apprentice holding her cheek, to Nieven, to Aelynthi who collects himself enough to snarl. “What were you thinking?”

If it had been a simple slab of stone, they could use a few well-known spells to mend it. But with the amount of magical properties already embedded in the rock and what will be added for the final picture, any extra spellwork might not mesh properly.

That means either starting again—which will take them back _months_ —using lesser, more mundane means of smoothing over the crack that will likely be visible to anyone with keen eyesight, or Aelynthi is going to have to use a tricky but effective bit of blood magic that he knows won’t disturb the underlying spells and rune work.

Victory shuffles a bit, but does not back down. He crosses his arms over his chest, and Aelynthi catches sight of muscles flexing and bulging against his sleeveless tunic. He is not dressed in peacekeeper armor, but there is a sword strapped to his back and he still looks every inch a soldier. “I came to see you,” And he cracks a small grin at that, “Beluar didn’t think I could find you within the year, but I did.” He seems utterly pleased with himself.

“Get out of my workshop,” Aelynthi hisses.

Victory raises an eyebrow as he glances at the stonework and has the grace to look slightly sheepish. “I am still getting used to the strength and bulk of this body.”

“Your apologies will not mend stone,” Aelynthi responds icily. “Leave now. I have repairs to make.” He is already going over the extensive list of items he’s going to need for the spellwork involved, not to mention the amount of white-rooted feverfew he’s going to need to ingest for his blood to be the proper consistency and potency.

“I will leave if you come with me,” Victory ventures, grinning again, “I’m hungry.”

Nieven looks torn between giving the peacekeeper a verbal whipping and making herself as small and unassuming as possible. Even with Aelynthi’s rank, very few wish to tangle with peacekeepers if they can help it. Aelynthi can’t blame Nieven for her hesitation.

But the audacity of this newly-bodied elf is rankling, and Aelynthi has no intention of letting the mishap go. “Nieven, have the others work on their side projects for the moment. And have someone fetch the ingredients I’ll need to fix that crack.”

Nieven nods, looking warily at Victory. “Will you be alright?”

“I can handle myself. Just do as I say,” Aelynthi says sharply. If he angers this peacekeeper _he_ might be safe, but chances are Victory will take his irritation out on someone here. Best to get him out of the shop and away from them. He knows the pettiness of peacekeepers. Elgar’nan’s people seem to think being his followers makes them better than the rest, and they do not like being proven otherwise.

Victory is still grinning when Aelynthi walks past, “You are paying,” He calls back over his shoulder as he steps onto the road.

“For the food? Of course.” Victory nods, looking sorely pleased with himself. He is far too close for Aelynthi’s comfort, their arms nearly brushing as they walk down the street. Aelynthi barely reaches the other man’s collarbone. It’s ridiculous how gigantic he is.

“For _everything_.” Aelynthi drawls.

* * *

“I am going to win your affection,” Victory states halfway through their meal, after Aelynthi’s anger has stopped clouding the air around him and settled into a fine layer of irritation against his skin.

If Aelynthi were anyone else, he supposes he would have choked on his food at the sudden declaration. As it where he only raises an eyebrow, “If that was your intention from the start, you are on shaky ground.”

It is not the first time someone has propositioned him. He knows his looks are conventionally beautiful and sought after, and his eyes are an uncommon color that many find striking. But those bold few have never started with setting him back months behind on an art project, or stated they are going to pursue him earnestly after meeting him twice and speaking a few sentences between them.

He thinks, perhaps, that Elgar’nan has let his spirit of Victory leave the nest too soon after taking a body. He is obviously confused if he wishes to begin courting so quickly. And why he has chosen Aelynthi, of all people, is beyond him.

Victory’s smile is quick and sharp, “I have never lost.”

Aelynthi rolls his eyes.

“I shall begin with something small,” Victory decides, ignoring the acidic glare that Aelynthi send his way. “Small victories are important as well. A smile. I have not seen you smile yet.”

Aelynthi’s brow furrows and his frown deepens. What kind of idiot suggests such a thing? He waves over one of the servants and orders another dish. If the fool says he will pay, Aelynthi can at least eat all he wishes to. He has not eaten much these past few days anyway. He had not realized how hungry he was before. “You are an idiot.”

Victory looks only mildly offended at the insult. “I have been called worse.” He responds.

“I am sure you have,” Aelynthi retaliates, “And all well-deserved no doubt.”

“You are thinner than the last time I saw you. Have you been eating properly?” Victory is staring at his wrist. Aelynthi glances at the limb. The bones are a bit more prominent than usual, but it is not extreme. He hardly thinks someone who has seen him a total of three times counting their current meal would notice that or have the right to comment on it.

And he doesn’t need to be patronized either, not by a giant hulking idiot who nearly broke his front door in two. “Is that why you stormed into my workshop and interrupted my work? To see if I had been eating properly? Is that the current duty of Arlathan’s peacekeepers?”

Victory shrugs. “I did not mean to interrupt anything.”

“It’s going to cost a hefty sum to fix it. The ingredients for that kind of magic aren’t cheap.” _Not to mention white-rooted feverfew tastes noxious_.

“I will pay for it,” Victory nods earnestly.

“Of course you will,” Aelynthi scoffs. “I told you you’d pay for everything. But can you _afford_ it?” He glances over Victory’s clothing doubtfully.

Victory follows his gaze and frowns. “Of course. I was promoted before arriving here. Do I look like I cannot pay?” He sighs and gives a small nod, “So that is why the other peacekeepers did not believe that I was to be their new commander.”

Aelynthi pauses, “…commander?”

Another nod.

He can only imagine Victory arriving in Arlathan at the peacekeeper barracks, dressed in his ridiculous sleeveless tunic and worn out fighting leathers announcing he is now the commander of the city’s security force. He is surprised that Victory was not beaten for the audacity of his claims. 

The edges of his lips tilt of their own volition, and he reaches up a hand to cover it, but Victory sees before he can. Victory’s own grin stretches across his face, nearly splitting it in half.  “I won today,” He nearly crows, no matter that the terms were set by himself.

“A complete idiot,” Aelynthi reiterates, standing. “If you interrupt any of my apprentices again I’m going to file a complaint. Thank you for the food.”

* * *

A spirit of Subtlety begins to frequent the workshop around the time that Victory begins sending gifts.

It has been fifty years since Victory stepped into Aelynthi’s workshop, and while Aelynthi had assumed that the peacekeeper would lose interest once he became used to his new body he is mistaken. Victory visits often, to the consternation of Nieven and the other apprentices. Peacekeepers put everyone on edge, and a peacekeeper courting their teacher even more so. Especially as Victory rises in rank and his visits become more and more frequent.

Each time he sets some small goal; sometimes he does not even tell Aelynthi what it is. Aelynthi will find himself smiling or chuckling or rolling his eyes and Victory will slap the table and shout, “Ha! I won!”

“It is not a victory if you are the only one fighting.” Aelynthi will mutter, if only because he dislikes having become some odd conquest.

“It is a fight with myself.” Victory will answer, before grinning, “And I have won.”

The first gift is a simple set of decorative wire end carving tools and comes the day after Aelynthi storms out of Victory’s quarters during an argument. He’s still irritated, but he accepts the tools and mutters a “thank you” when he sees Victory next.

The gifts aren’t contingent on an argument, but he always gets one after a particularly loud and nasty one. Victory is not good with words, but the sincerity of his apologizes has always come through even without them. Still, Aelynthi won’t tell him that.

He likes the gifts.

* * *

“It sounds to me like he is serious,” Morwen murmurs at his hip, hot breath sneaking downward. “Is he handsome?” It’s early morning, and they are tangled together in a patch of soft sunlight like a pair of cats.

Aelynthi props himself up on his elbows and sighs. “I suppose if one’s aesthetic interest gravitates toward giants.”

Morwen rolls his eyes from where he has settled between Aelynthi’s legs and bites down on his thigh. Aelynthi winces and tries to shift away, but Morwen holds him down with a smirk. His tongue darts out in apology over flushed skin.

“Very well,” Aelynthi assents lazily, content and sated from the night before and willing to endure Morwen’s questions. “He is handsome enough.”

“Handsome how?” Morwen continues, fingers brushing along the back of his knees, trailing down his calves.

Aelynthi closes his eyes and leans back against the cushions. The breeze from the window is cool and smells like the magnolia tree that stands in the courtyard below. For as long as he can remember he’s known the smell of magnolia blossoms. They are Melarue’s favorite.

“Broad. Muscled.” Aelynthi shrugs, letting out a hitched breath at Morwen’s continued ministrations. His fingers have joined his mouth, teasing but not quite touching where he wishes them to. Morwen has always enjoyed teasing. “Eager.”

“That is not your usual type,” Morwen hums, and Aelynthi can feel the vibrations of the words against his skin.

“I do not have a type,” Aelynthi argues back.

“You should bring him with you next time,” Morwen suggests. “I have always wanted to fuck a giant.”

Aelynthi kicks him off the bed.

* * *

The bowl is made of sturdy, clear glass, as large as his head and is filled nearly to the top with water. Swimming in lazy circles within is a small fish the same color as his eyes. A note sits tucked under the corner.

“That peacekeeper brought it by while you were out,” One of the new apprentices states, glancing at the fish. “It’s very pretty.”

Aelynthi nods, throat tightening as he picks up the note and reads.

**They are called fighting fish. The males can’t be put in the same space or they will fight. It reminded me of you.**

_What an idiot_ , Aelynthi thinks, and is surprised at the hint of fondness that laces the sentiment.

Subtlety leans over, tendrils trailing ripples across the water’s surface as the fish swims close to the surface to investigate the intruder to its territory. “He is not very subtle.”

“No,” Aelynthi agrees, “He is not.”

Nieven walks into the room and scoffs, “I thought you hated fish. You think they’re useless.”

“Yes,” Aelynthi agrees, “I do.”

He places the fish on a table near the entrance to the workshop, surrounded by potted plants, and orders the apprentices to feed it regularly. No one comments upon the fact that he has placed it in the direct line of site of his worktable, or that he comes back one day with a large tank decorated with a bed of frosted grey stone’s the color of Victory’s eyes, but Nieven clucks and Subtly hums knowingly when it catches him daydreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally just going to be some Aelynthi x Victory before I finished the next chapter of Janiculum and it somehow turned into the origin story of their relationship. 
> 
> Goodness gracious. It’s so much longer than I’d anticipated, so I’ll be splitting it into two parts. Now that I have finished all my finals and now only have my master’s dissertation to work on for the next few months I’ll have more time to write and draw. So expect more updates!
> 
> Side note: Melarue is very, very old and has had more than one occasion to meet with Andruil. They are quite familiar with Andruil’s proclivities, though it is never as violent as what Andruil does with Uthvir. Though I imagine it is still highly unpleasant. Melarue is very, very good at doing what people want them to in bed, though, and Andruil isn’t the only person they’ve slept with who has those kinds of tendencies. Andruil is just the most passionate about them…


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Olwyn meets Lavellan and eats some pastries.

Grappling, fingers clutching, trying to find purchase, to get a hold.

She isn’t strong enough.

She rolls, hits the ground and somersaults. _No time to think. Have to keep moving. Have to find a weakness to exploit._

She sees an opening and lunges.

“What on earth are the two of you doing?”

Olwyn pauses long enough in her attempt at a headlock that Victory flips her over and begins mercilessly tickling her stomach. She dissolves into shrieking laughter as Aelynthi watches them from the doorway, bemused.

“I am teaching her to wrestle,” Victory announces, “Even if she remains small like you, it will be good for her to know how to throw her weight.”

“I am not small,” Aelynthi mutters, “You are simply a giant. I am perfectly proportioned.”

“Yes you are,” Victory agrees with a wink, and Olwyn glances between the two from her position pinned to the ground by one of Victory’s arms and giggles. It’s cute when they flirt like this. It reminds her a bit of Bull and Dorian. The memories don’t hurt as much anymore, and she’s able to keep the sadness they evoke tucked away now, so that it doesn’t show and worry her parents.

Aelynthi has been busy lately with work, so much so that even _she_ has seen little of him the past few weeks, so she figures it would be polite to excuse herself. She taps at Victory’s arm in a sign of “I give up” and manages to get herself into a sitting position before she’s pulled into his lap fully.

“We will make a warrior of her yet.” He says proudly, ruffling her hair before turning to speak to Aelynthi again. “She has been learning to use a staff as well.”

Aelynthi huffs, looking none too impressed with her desire for combat arts. She thinks it is less that he dislikes them on their own merit, and more because their end result is fighting that could lead to her being injured. “Yes, I am certain a five-year-old waving about a stick is a sight to behold.”

“I am getting better,” Olwyn puts in. And really, if she were just a bit taller she could begin training in earnest. At the moment it’s all about familiarizing herself with the feel of a staff in her hands again and the basic stances and movements. But the sooner she starts, the better. It’s been so long since she’s held a staff, even longer since she’s had two arms to do it with properly, so she’s a bit rusty.

And Desire said she’d show her some arm strengthening exercises the next time she sees her. Though of course that’s not the only reason she’s looking forward to Desire’s return. It’s been hard, waiting for news about Lavellan after sending off her own gift and message. Patience is not one of her strongest virtues.

Aelynthi seems to think her silence is disappointment, because his gaze softens, “I am sure you are wonderful. I would love to see what you’ve been practicing.”

“In a little.” Olwyn agrees, squirming out of Victory’s hold. “I am going to play.”

Aelynthi bends down to kiss the top of her head before she can slip out of the room. “I brought you some new clay from the workshop. Nieven says you wanted some.”

“Thank you,” Olwyn chirps. “I will be in my room, so you two do not need to worry.” She looks pointedly at them, “I will be there for a _very_ long time.”

She doesn’t wait for them to respond. Instead she heads down the hallway to her room and shuts the door firmly. Sitting on the small table in the center of the room is a container of the clay she had asked Nieven about. She lifts off the lid and smiles to herself. Perfect.

“Why did you ask for clay?” Purpose asks as it drifts into the room. It always seems to know when Victory is too preoccupied to chase it off.

“You are bigger than you were last week,” Olwyn notes before she turns back to the clay. “I am going to make bombs.”

“That is dangerous.” Purpose asserts.

“I am only _practicing_.” Olwyn shrugs. “I will not blow anything up yet. Why are you bigger?”

“Because I have a purpose now.” Purpose answers, peering down at the clay in her hands. “How will you turn the clay into a bomb?”

“Very carefully.” Olwyn replies. Sera had shown her how to make them, once upon a time. She and Dagna had worked on a more powerful version of them near the end of the war. This version is a simple thing, more sound than actual damage. But if she can get all of the ingredients and properly craft the things, she can begin experimenting with other options. She would prefer glass, but asking for a large amount of glass globes will be a bit more suspicious than asking for clay.

So clay it is, for now. She should probably also make something else, so Aelynthi doesn’t wonder what she’s been doing with all the clay. She’s not a very good sculptor, so in this she supposes her skill level and that of a normal five-year-old are about equal.

Purpose continues to hover, watching as Olwyn slowly shapes the clay into small balls, humming to herself. A year before Purpose had decided to aid her and had taken to the task wholeheartedly, even if it was still run off any time Victory caught sight of it. When she had finally managed to explain the whole of it—with much prodding from the spirit—it had felt good. Good to finally say it out loud.

_“I was supposed to protect my people and I couldn’t.”_

_“You failed your purpose?”_

_She closes her eyes and lets out a low, slow breath. “Yes I did.”_

_Purpose watches her for several moments. “You will not fail this time. I will help you.”_

_“You?”_

_“It is a good purpose.” Purpose nods. “I will help you achieve it.”_

_“It might never happen.”_

_“Then I will be busy for a very long time. That is good too.”_

It is straight-forward in its desire to help, and she feels almost guilty for accepting its aid so readily. She does not wish for the spirit to get in trouble.

“It is alright,” Purpose moves closer, nearly draping itself around her. She can feel the weight of it. Not a physical weight, but the heaviness of magic and sentiment. “It is a good purpose. To save the People. I will not get in trouble. I will not tell anyone.”

Olwyn nods absently. Good. The last thing she needs is for one of the evanuris to become suspicious. “I wanted to ask, couldn’t you go into the Fade—the _Dreaming_ and look for Lavellan for me? It would be faster than waiting for another note, and you can ask the other spirits to find her.”

Purpose pauses, “Andruil’s lands are not…they are not always safe for spirits.”

Purpose has told her what it can about each of the evanuris and their lands. She knows Andruil is a great hunter, who enjoys the act for the sport of it. Her followers are usually made from the same mold, like her grandmother Faunalyn. Hunters and trackers and adventurers. “Does she dislike spirits?”

She knows that Falon’Din tends to sacrifice them more often than not. The same with Elgar’nan, though with less frequency and violence. June and Sylaise often use them for their creations, and some of the artists use them in their work. Once, Aelynthi had taken a spirit of sorrow to fuel a piece of some kind for Sylaise’ gardens and she had burst into tears and not stopped crying until the spirit had been released.

She does not know if a new spirit was used afterwards. Aelynthi had kept her from the workshop until the piece was finished, and she had not had the courage to ask.

“She enjoys hunting them.”

“Oh,” Olwyn sighs. _She sounds positively lovely_ , “Then perhaps you should stay here. We will wait for Desire to give us a new message.”

“Do you think Lavellan has the same purpose as us?” Purpose asks.

Olwyn stares down at the clay in her hands. It is heavy, and a thin layer of it has dried on her skin. “I hope so.”

* * *

Desire is the best at cuddling. She is soft and warm and inviting. Like a patch of sunlight perfect for curling up in. And so Olwyn does, more often than not.

She finds herself there now, looking over a book meant to teach her basic words and sentences. It’s all rather bland and repetitive, but any time she’s asked for anything more scholarly her parents and others smile and nod and hand her a different but still utterly simplistic tome. So instead of reading up on the history of Arlathan and their war with the Nameless she’s learning colors and the proper grammatical structure of basic adjectives. Which are _important_ things to learn, to be certain, but are mind-numbingly dull for an adult trapped in a five-year-old’s body.

They are sitting in a small alcove outside the barracks. It has a good view of the training yard, which is where she spends her time more and more as she grows, abandoning the small corner of Victory’s office now that she can walk and explore. Over the years it has slowly become designated as “her spot” when she’s staying with Victory. Pillows and toys and storybooks are stuffed into nooks and crannies, and there’s a loose stone near the back that she can hide a box of sweets under. Eagerness had shown it to her when she was three, and he keeps it well-stocked for them both.

“Alright Duckling, you’ve been very patient,” Desire grins down at her, “I know what you’ve been waiting for. It came just the other day.” She holds out a piece of paper. “Do you need me to read it to you?”

Olwyn has to stop herself from snatching it out of her hand. Right. _Patience_. “No it’s fine,” She settles on. “I will try to read it myself first. I am getting much better.”

Desire chuckles, the sound rumbling up her chest and against Olwyn’s back. “Alright.”

“Is Lavellan nice?” Olwyn asks, looking at the letter in her hands.

“She is a very serious child,” Desire answers. “But from what I have seen, she is kind.” She seems bemused at Olwyn’s curiosity and concern. “I am sure she will like you.”

_Let’s hope so. I’d like it if the only other surviving member of my destroyed world likes me. It’ll make things rather awkward if she doesn’t._

It takes all of her willpower to wait until Victory and Aelynthi are asleep to finally open the letter and read its contents, Purpose hovering over her in anticipation. It is written in elvhen, which does not surprise her. Likely Lavellan’s own parents read the letter before helping her send it, so it is brief and casual and simplistic. A letter meant to be read by a child.

_Hello,_

_Thank you for the block. It was very beautiful._

_I heard that you were also found in the forest. That is very interesting! I think we are the only two people in the world that were found in a forest. I would like to meet you. My papa and nanae say that we will be coming to Arlathan in a few months. I hope we can meet. I think it would be very fun._

_Lavellan_

The paper warms under her touch, a little bit of magic settling against her skin. It is…an odd sensation. Not bad, and it does not seem to do anything at all.

“It is so you can find her in the Dreaming,” Purpose supplies. “So that you will know where she is. It is not dangerous at all.”

Olwyn nods. That is certainly a useful bit of magic. She wishes she had known about it sooner. But she supposes it isn’t something a five-year-old is likely to need. “So when I go into the Dreaming tonight, I should be able to find her?”

“Yes.”

Olwyn flops back against her pillows, the letter clutched tightly to her chest. Tomorrow morning she will tell Victory and Aelynthi about what the note says—they know she received one and seem to find the correspondence between the two children endearing—and hopefully they will set up a playdate of some sort when Lavellan comes to Arlathan with her family. It will be good to see her physically.

But for now she will content herself with what she can get. Her stomach flutters nervously. So many things could go wrong. What if Lavellan is a bad person? What if this letter is a trap? Unease and anticipation both settle in her chest.

“I will come too,” Purpose insists. “In case it is unsafe.”

Olwyn frowns. “I can handle myself.” Which she thinks is half true. And while she won’t say it, she’s glad for Purpose’ offer. But principle dictates that she at least _try_ and act like she has everything under control. That’s pretty much how she got through the entirety of her time leading the Inquisition. Bravado and sheer dumb luck.

“Your body is still small,” Purpose continues. “It is not big enough to do the things you wish to do. Our purpose is the same, so I will come with you.”

“Alright,” Olwyn concedes. Because well, if Lavellan _is_ secretly a serial killer elf from the future, at least there will be someone there to help her.

* * *

When she falls asleep and wakes up in the Dreaming, Purpose is already beside her. The Dreaming in Arlathan is a bright and overwhelming place at times. There are so many elves and spirits and latent magic that everything glows with it.

The ground below her feet is frosted glass, and underneath it she can see the churning current of magic that runs through the city, glinting with a multitude of colors, like the sun reflecting off of a drake’s scales.

This reflection of the city is her favorite. More so than the calm, simple memories and quiet places she often finds when she awakes here. This makes it feel more like an actual place and not a figment of her imagination. Like she is physically in the Fade again, but without all the fear demons and the black city hanging over her head.

And then she feels it, that odd little bit of magic under her skin that seems to tell her exactly how to push and pull on the Dreaming to go where she needs to. The light around her dims in intensity as she finds herself outside the walls of the city and in a forest glen.

It looks like the Emerald Graves.

Seated beneath the weathered statue of a wolf is a young woman. She stands as Olwyn approaches and Olwyn stops a few feet from the other girl and pauses, throat tight.

She knows that Lavellan is older than her. She seems to be about fifteen, lithe and muscular and pretty. She is not tall, and she does not tower, but she gives off a feeling of being bigger than she is. Lavellan looks to Purpose, and then back at Olwyn. She seems just as wary of Olwyn as Olwyn is of her. It makes sense. She does not know if Olwyn is a good person either.

That odd, little bit of hope that had burned in her chest when she’d learned of another child dies when she realizes that she does not recognize Lavellan. It had been foolish, to hope that somehow one of her friends had made it here. She knows that. But it doesn’t stop the disappointment.

“Hello,” Lavellan says in Common, and Olwyn can’t hide the sheer happiness she feels at the sound of that one word. She nearly cries, feeling the tears prick the corner of her eyes. She blinks them back hurriedly.

“Hello,” She says back, and she hopes her voice doesn’t tremble too much. Silence settles between them again. It is as if each wants to speak, has so much to say, but does not know how to say it. The air becomes thick with a turbulent storm of emotions. Two souls that have survived the destruction of their world to find that they are not alone.

Lavellan shifts on her feet. She has a sturdy stance. A fighter, then, of some sort? Though if she is being raised in Andruil’s lands that is highly likely. A product of her current environment or a glimmer of what she was before all this? That is the real question. “I tried to find you before, but there were wards up preventing me from searching.”

Olwyn’s brow furrows. “Wards?” She has been able to roam the Dreaming easily enough. True, the first year or so had been baffling and terrifying, though she has had enough experience with the Fade in her own time to know how to traverse it relatively easily. It helps that the Dreaming relies far more on willpower than anything else, and she was able to walk around more easily than she could as an infant in the waking world.

“Aelynthi was very worried someone might try and steal you.” Purpose answers.

“Through the _Fade_?” Olwyn throws up her hands, “Why am I not surprised? What kind of convoluted blood magic was he using this time?” Aelynthi, she has learned, uses quite a bit of blood magic, and he does so very well.

“It is only meant to keep people from coming across you in the Dreaming.” Purpose asserts, “That is all. Because you are so small. He worries.”

Yes. Yes he does. She thinks he probably has panic attacks when she’s in her bedroom and he can’t see her. It does not surprise her then, that he’s done such a thing. “But I was able to find Lavellan.”

“It only works for those searching for _you_.”

Lavellan seems to relax a bit after the outburst. Perhaps it was the mentioning of the Dreaming as the Fade. Or perhaps Olwyn’s ease with Purpose. Olwyn looks down at her feet and the grass beneath them. She wiggles her toes and feels cool, moist earth. She is not good with silence, but she is not entirely certain how to fill it here. There is too much to say and no words to properly say it.

“Were you a city elf? Or Dalish?” She asks finally as she looks around the glen. For Lavellan to know of the Emerald Graves, it is far more likely she is Dalish than from the city, unless she was a member of the Inquisition. If she was, she is not someone that Olwyn knows.

“Dalish,” Lavellan answers slowly. As if she is trying to decide if the information she is giving could be used against her somehow. They both desperately wish to find someone to share their grief, but they are both cautious and wary and distrustful.

_She doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know that I failed her and everyone else. But she deserves to know. It won’t be fair otherwise._ No matter who Lavellan was in their time, she was still someone that Olwyn had failed. Someone she was supposed to protect.

Shame and guilt burn in her chest and upon her cheeks. The tears threaten again. It is impossible to keep the feelings from the air around her. Purpose looks like it wishes to say something, but she shakes her head. She does not need comforting.

“I’m so sorry,” Olwyn swallows, bowing her head. The words begin to come out in a rush. She needs to say them. _Needs_ to. “I’m so sorry that I wasn’t able to save everyone. As the Inquisitor and Solas’ friend I offer my apologies.” It won’t be enough, she knows. This elf has every right to hate her and blame her for not doing enough for their world. She will accept that.

She continues to look down as the tears finally slip from her eyes and down her nose. A few drop onto the top of her bare feet as she waits for Lavellan to speak. To condemn and question. But the silence stretches. She gathers the courage to look up and blinks at the confusion on Lavellan’s face. Not anger. Not sorrow. Just surprise and a quizzical furrow of her brow.

“…what are you talking about?”

“The…the Inquisition…” Olwyn hiccups, but the confusion on Lavellan’s face is making it easier to push the grief down again. Does Lavellan not know of the Inquisition? Is she from…is she from a different time? Somewhere before the Inquisition, but after Solas put up the Veil?  

Purpose cocks its head—or the part of it that looks somewhat like a head, it’s the part with the eyes at least—and stares at the two. It blinks a few times. “You are both Inquisitors.”

It takes a few moments for Olwyn to digest what Purpose has said. Both…Inquisitors? That doesn’t make any sense. And she knows that she, a time-traveling human mage who has been reborn as an immortal elf, can’t really say anything on that front. But somehow even this seems too much for her brain to handle.

Another Inquisitor means a different _world_ , not just a different time. And if she is here…if Lavellan has also been sent back like she was that means… “…did Solas send you back too?” She asks finally, because it’s the only thing she can think to say.

Lavellan continues to stare.

_If Solas did send her back, it means the same thing happened to her. That she failed as well._ Does that mean that it was a hopeless venture from the start? Trying to save Solas and the world from himself? The blood seems to rush to her head and she feels light-heated. “I am going to sit down before I faint. Or vomit. Or both,” Olwyn manages before she flops to the ground.

Lavellan follows suit a bit more gracefully, still silent, still staring.

“How can we both be Inquisitors?”

Purpose weaves around her, tendrils of light and magic in her hair and resting against her skin. “I cannot answer that question. But both of you are.” It looks down at her and its inner light flares briefly, warming her. “Lavellan shares our purpose.”

“What?” Lavellan says finally, voice hoarse. She swallows and tries again, “What do you mean?”

“To protect the People.” Purpose answers. “To keep the same thing from happening again.”

Olwyn watches Lavellan think. Her face is not expressive, but Olwyn can somehow glean exactly how her thought process is working. Trying to decide if this is real. If it’s safe to trust. Simply because they have the same goal does not mean they will agree on how to achieve it.

What if Lavellan tries to kill Solas?

Olwyn doesn’t want anyone killing her friend, especially if there’s a chance she can talk him out of all this nonsense. It doesn’t seem fair to kill him. He has sent her back here for a reason. It would be bad manners to kill off his past self after all that. Or _is_ this the past? Maybe it’s just…a different version of it all. If Lavellan was also an Inquisitor, and they’ve both landed here, doesn’t that just make this an alternate world to their own?

It’s really…it’s really not something she wants to think about. The implications are too much. It also finalizes the idea that her world is beyond saving. This isn’t the _past_ of her time. It is the past of some other time. No matter what she changes here, it won’t help the people she knows.

_But it will help the people here. Just think about that. Everyone will be born in this world eventually, right? Even if they aren’t the versions I know._

“You knew Solas?” Lavellan murmurs.

Olwyn nods. “He was my friend.” She smooths a few wrinkles from her dress. “You?”

“I…yes…” Lavellan settles on, but it seems like there is more to it than that. Not in a bad way, though. Whatever it is she is hiding, saying Solas was her friend is not a lie.

“Well,” Olwyn nods, coming to a decision. “If Solas called you a friend it means that you’re not a bad person. I’m going to trust in that. He may have had horrible plans in regards to the state of the world and how to fix it, but he was a relatively good judge of character.”

 Lavellan smiles a bit at that. She still looks dazed, an expression that Olwyn is sure she mirrors. There are so many things Olwyn wants to ask. How had the Inquisition fared under Lavellan? What had she done differently? But she knows she won’t get answers to those questions now. They are still too unsure of one another.

“I guess the real question is…what happens now?”

* * *

They agree to meet again in a few weeks. After they’ve both had time to think. There is a lot to think about. To consider. They had not remained in the Dreaming much longer after their decision to meet again. There had been too many questions buzzing in the air around them. 

They will have time to answer them all. There is no need to rush. Not if things work out how Olwyn hopes they do.

She spends nights lying awake trying to make sense of it all. Purpose does not seem to know what to do about it. To it, everything is rather straightforward. They are both Inquisitors; both sent back to fix things. It is a good purpose and they should begin to move forward, not lay in bed having an existential crisis.

But nothing is ever as simple as that.

“What are you thinking about so seriously, little heart?”

Olwyn looks up from her breakfast at Victory’s words. They are sitting in the communal dining hall, eating before Aelynthi has to leave again. He is heading to Sulevinan, another city, to speak with some of the artisans there about some piece that Sylaise wants.

“She has been like this ever since she received that letter from Lavellan,” Aelynthi refills Olwyn’s glass. He looks at her plate and adds a few things from his plate to hers. “Are you excited to meet with her?”

“Yes,” Olwyn nods, smiling. Meeting in the Fade is all well and good, but seeing Lavellan physically will make it seem more real, she thinks. Remind her that she hasn’t made Lavellan up in her desperation to have someone to talk to.

“I will be home when they arrive,” Aelynthi says to Victory. “I have spoken with my mother and nanae about Lavellan’s parents. Uthvir seems questionable, but Thenvunin seems to be an adequate parent.” Which translates to _Uthvir should not be left alone with our baby and Thenvunin can probably be trusted not to kill her by accident but should still not be left alone with our baby_.

It does not surprise her that Aelynthi has done background checks on Lavellan’s parents. It doesn’t seem to surprise Victory, either, by the way he just nods and continues eating.

“Is Sulevinan pretty?” Olwyn asks, just to have something to say. She’s done too much thinking as of late. She has never been out of Arlathan except for their trips to Elgar’nan’s main holding.

“It is not as beautiful as Arlathan,” Aelynthi settles on. “But it has its own charm. When you are older would you like to visit? It will be good to see the different art styles and architecture there.”

“I would like that,” Olwyn agrees. The more she sees of the elvhen territory the better. “Maybe the next time I can visit Lavellan where she lives?”

“Perhaps when she is with her father,” Aelynthi murmurs.

Victory shakes his head with a small laugh. “Andruil is not going to hunt our baby, Aelynthi.”

“She is very pretty,” Aelynthi defends.

“She is _five_.”

“Andruil will remember how pretty she is. And then when she is no longer five…” He trails off, as if he has just remembered that they are in public. The dining hall is relatively empty this early in the morning, and they are sitting in a more secluded section, but it is still not safe to say anything that could be misheard and misunderstood.

Victory sighs, accepting that he cannot win this argument, and turns to Olwyn. “If the two of you get along, we will see about you visiting Lavellan when she is in Mythal’s estate.”

“Mythal has many sculptures I would like to see in more detail,” Aelynthi nods. “If the time comes I will take you.”

That is the best she is going to get, she thinks, so she doesn’t ask further.

The rest of the day passes in relative normalcy. She spends the morning with her clay while Victory takes reports. Then lunch. Then she spends the afternoon watching the peacekeepers in the training yard.

They are going through some kind of drill. Crowd control in case of riots, or something similar. Victory is shouting out orders, and Desire is calling out taunts from the sidelines where she sits with Olwyn and several others, waiting for their turn at the drill.

Olwyn wonders how many riots there are in the cities, that they need training. It seems like they have been escalating. Unrest in the lower city, among the unmarked and the lower-ranks. Something to do with a new law the evanuris have passed that restricts more of their movement and ability to raise their own rank.

The patrols around those areas have increased, and Victory has recalled several groups of peacekeepers from some of the outer holdings to help until it has been dealt with. Olwyn isn’t sure that the answer to unrest is to send out a military unit to beat up anyone who objects. It’s likely to only make things worse. But Victory has his orders and he follows them assiduously.

Watching Victory bellow out commands makes her think of Cullen. It isn’t something she _wants_ to think about. It hurts, to remember, and to know that no matter what happens, it is unlikely she will ever see him again. And even if she does, he will not be the same person. Neither will she, if she manages to live through all of this.

“No one is actually getting hurt, Duckling. It’s just training.” Desire glances at her. She seems to have misunderstood the small cloud of misery hanging over Olwyn’s head. She hates that people can see how she feels. It’s frustrating, and no matter how hard she tries to hide it, strong emotions still leak through.

“Ok,” Olwyn murmurs. It’s easier to just let them think that’s why she’s sad, sometimes. She can’t explain the real reason after all.

Victory yells out something about a break and the peacekeepers disperse to grab something to drink or just slump down where they stood, too tired for anything else. It is hot out, and she can see and smell the sweat.

Victory reaches down and grabs her from the bench and presses a kiss to her forehead. “Were you watching?”

“Yes,” Olwyn nods, “I am learning a lot.”

Victory grins. He seems very pleased at her desire to learn how to fight and his ability to teach in that regard. “Go and grab your staff and show me what you learned.” He places her down on the ground and she heads off to his office where her small staff is stored. Aelynthi was adamant that she not be allowed to carry around anything dangerous without supervision, so as a compromise she has to keep her weapons in Victory’s office and ask him for permission before taking anything out.

Her staff is in its normal place, on a rack near Victory’s large sword. He does not use it often. If he goes out on patrol he usually takes his war-hammer. She thinks it might have been a gift, because it is very pretty. More for show than for utility.

There is a plate of pastries sitting on the edge of Victory’s desk.

They are Victory’s favorite—and her’s as well. He will not mind if she sneaks one, she thinks. Likely he knew they were there in the first place and sent her off so she could have some sweets before dinner without Aelynthi’s scolding.

She smiles to herself and grabs one off the plate. Best be quick about it, or someone will come looking for her to see what has taken her so long. The outside is flaky and buttery and the inside filled with a mixture of cinnamon and apples. She stuffs one of the tiny pastries into her mouth whole and chews.

_Maybe just one more_ , she decides, as she gobbles down a second one and then reaches for her staff. She pauses long enough to realize her hands are now covered in icing and rather sticky. She looks around the room for something to wipe them off with.

A small twinge of pain is the only warning she gets before she doubles over and vomits. 

She lets out a gasp of breath and stares in shock at the puddle of blood at her feet. Then pain lances up her stomach, twisting her guts as she falls to her knees with a cry.

_I’ve been poisoned_ , she thinks blearily, trying to cast some kind of healing spell. But whatever had been in the pastries has made it difficult to focus, and the pain builds with each passing second. She tries to call out, but the cry doesn’t make it past her lips. Instead more bile and blood take its place, acidic and metallic and a hint of something bitter that must have been the poison. _Stupid_ , she thinks furiously, _so stupid._

She tries to stand, to get help, but cramps have her doubling over again, unable to rise. Her face is pressed against stone and vomit, and it’s soaking into her hair and clothes.

The door slams against the wall so hard she’s certain it shatters as Victory grabs her off the ground. The world tilts and goes black for a moment before righting itself. All she can feel in the air is confusion and a fear so visceral it makes her go cold. She tries to speak, but all that comes out is a wheeze as blood dribbles down her chin.

“El’ena!” His voice breaks and he gathers her in his arms and roars something. She can’t make sense of it. The world is going dark and it’s hard to keep her eyes open.

_This is the shittiest way to die_ , she thinks as her vision goes black.

* * *

Sorry for the cliffhanger but this chapter was getting much too long. 


	8. Aelynthi's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little drabble before the next chapter, in which Aelynthi learns of Olwyn's poisoning.

A bit of a drabble before the next chapter of Janiculum. Aelynthi learning of Olwyn’s poisoning.

He is in his workshop when the message arrives. Three peacekeepers come barging in, one of whom he recognizes—Desire, who knows his nanae—and he looks up from his sculpture and sees the fear on their faces and somehow he know. He _knows_.

“El’ena—”

He makes to stand and his legs give out. He reaches for the side of the table and his hand slips, knocking off his current project atop it. It hits the ground and shatters loudly, echoing, nine months of work gone in an instant.

Nieven is speaking to the peacekeepers, shouting something. It all sounds muffled, like he is underwater. Subtlety is helping him stand, trying to, her slim hands grasping under his arms and lifting but he is boneless and heavy with shock.

It is happening again.

Again. Again. Again someone is being taken from him.

Nieven’s hands are on his face. “Aelynthi,” She repeats, and he did not realize she has been saying his name for ages now, a desperate mantra. “Aelynthi they are going to take her to Sylaise’ healers. They are the finest in the city. _Aelynthi_.”

“Help me get him up,” Subtlety murmurs, “He is in shock.”

Desire reaches him first. She hauls him to his feet, keeping him there even as his legs tremble and he lets out a shuddering half-sob. “She is alive. We were able to make her throw most of it up before it could get further in her system. She is going to live.”

“What?” Aelynthi croaks.

“Poison.” Desire states firmly. “It was poison.”

His head feels light again. Who would poison his child? Who would be so heartless as to try and kill a _child_?

“Where is she?” _Where is my baby?_ His eyes are unfocused, and his world is spinning, but he latches onto that need to see her and it makes it easier to breathe. She is still here, they say. Still alive. _He needs to see her_.

“I’ll stay at the workshop,” Nieven looks around hurriedly, searching for something or someone, “Subtlety…”

“I will take him,” Subtlety agrees, voice soft and low. It should be calming, but Aelynthi is incapable of feeling anything but fear at the moment. “Will you show us the way, peacekeeper?”

Desire nods. She does not seem to think Aelynthi is capable of walking that far. He can. He will crawl on his hands and knees if he must. He will go to his child. He will walk through flames to get there. “Take me to her,” He orders, voice hoarse, as if he has been screaming.

It takes fifteen minutes to get to Sylaise’ tower and it feels like fifteen years. Every second that ticks by as they walk between eluvians, Desire and Subtlety at his elbows carrying him more than leading. Each step is his daughter’s last, shuddering breath and he is here, in the street, not at her side _helping_ her, saving her. 

He is useless.

* * *

 

Sylaise’ tower gleams. Inside people are running to and fro like a kicked anthill. When they spot him they still. Some of them look as if they wish to approach, but others hold them back. A few of Sylaise’ attendants that he knows well clear the way for him.

Desires steps to the side, and Subtlety looks him over worriedly. She does not let go of his arm, trying to find familiar faces.

Splendour himself, _Splendour_ whom he dislikes and has never had a pleasant conversation with, nods his head as he leads him toward the healer’s wing. “We have placed her in a private chamber. The healers are seeing to her now.”

He wishes to say thank you, but he cannot speak. His throat has locked itself tight, too tight to even swallow. He can barely breathe. Subtlety’s guiding hand at his back is his only anchor in a sea of fear and confusion.

There are four healers in the room when he arrives, standing over the tiny form of his daughter lying on a bed much too big for her. She is so _still_ and _quiet_. She is not supposed to be either of those things. A spirit of Serenity hovers in his periphery.

Victory is in the corner of the room, head in his hands in a chair much too small for him. He senses the despair and terror in the air that accompanies Aelynthi’s arrival and looks up. His expression is broken and so very, very afraid. He stands and makes his way to where Aelynthi waits, out of the way of the healers who place glowing hands over his daughter and whisper among themselves.

Victory drops to his knees and presses his face in Aelynthi’s stomach, hands wrapping around him, like a ship at sea finally pulling into port. “I am so sorry,” Victory chokes out, voice muffled against Aelynthi’s tunic. “I am so sorry. This is all my fault.” He repeats the words over and over. Aelynthi absently strokes his hair, but his gaze does not leave their daughter. He stares, eyes fixed on the faint rise and fall of her chest.

She is alive.

_El’ena is alive. My baby is alive. She is here._

Victory sobs into his shirt and he watches his daughter struggle to breathe and he is cold. So very cold. At some point Subtlety leaves and returns, and the healers bent over his daughter feed her something that makes her throw up what looks like tar, the thick, black bile dribbling down her chin as she coughs. She is still unconscious, kept there magically to keep her from feeling the pain that is coursing through her.

Twenty minutes later Victory stands, and even though he looms over Aelynthi, he does not think he has ever seen Victory look so small. “Elgar’nan has ordered me to meet him when he arrives,” He manages to get out, grip tightening on Aelynthi’s arms, “I must organize the peacekeepers. I must…”

_Go_. He must go. It is an order. Elgar’nan is ordering him to leave the side of their unconscious daughter and he needs Aelynthi to say something, to make it ok. Aelynthi looks into his face. He does not know what to say.

“Go then,” He manages. “Go and return to us before she awakens.”

Victory nods curtly, he turns and the healers have departed save for the head healer, Lensa, who nods her head as Victory leans down and brushes a kiss on their daughter’s cheek and then leaves the room without looking back.

“We can set up a room for you nearby or you could return to your rooms within the tower,” Lensa says gently. “We will have someone in the room with her at all times.”

“I will stay here,” Aelynthi shakes his head. _I will not leave her._

Lensa nods. “Of course.”

There is a chair for him to sit on, large enough and comfortable enough that he could rest there, if need be. But when he does allow himself sleep, which is not often, he lays on the bed beside his daughter and holds her close. He listens to her soft, even breaths in the darkness and tries to calm the fear that has lodged itself in his chest.

Time is a blur. He does not know how many days pass as he sits at his daughter’s side. Victory comes and goes when he can, thinner than he should be, face gaunt with fear and fatigue and guilt.

He is half-bent over the bed and dozing when Sylaise herself comes to the healing wing.

Aelynthi makes to stand, but Sylaise shakes her head and waves him off, “You must be weary, Aelynthi, from tending your daughter. Remain seated.” He falls back gratefully into his seat, legs giving out. He cannot remember the last time he ate. Nieven had come and forced some food into his hands, but he does not remember if that was yesterday or the day before.

“She will be well?” His Lady looks down at his child. She reaches over and runs slender fingers over her forehead.

“Yes,” He manages, “The healers say she will recover. They are keeping her asleep while they flush the poison out of her system naturally.”

“It is best not to tamper too much with a young child’s body,” Sylaise agrees, looking down at El’ena once more. “The perpetrator has been caught, I am told. My father will hold the execution publicly tomorrow morning.”

Yes. Victory had mentioned it earlier, before he had been forced to leave to attend Elgar’nan. One of the peacekeepers, an agent for the Nameless. One of Victory’s own _men_ had tried to poison him and had nearly killed their daughter.

He hopes that it is painful. He hopes that it is slow.

He does not go to the execution. He stays with El’ena, her tiny hand held in his own, lips pressed to her forehead. And as he sits there, hunched over her small frame, too still in sleep, he thinks that this traitorous peacekeeper is not the only one who deserves punishment.

The evanuris have brought this upon them all. Even his gracious lady Sylaise, in her flowing silks and her grandiose tower, who destroys or throws out all the things that do not fit her image of beauty, is responsible for this.

_I will not forgive them for this,_ he thinks savagely, wearily, _El’ena, I will not let you become the victim of their failures ever again._

* * *

Elgar’nan will exact a price for this failure, Aelynthi knows it well. It does not matter that they did nothing wrong. That Elgar’nan himself appointed the peacekeeper that worked for the Nameless and nearly killed their daughter. The evanuris do not blame themselves for their own failings. They must always find someone else to punish.

It will be Victory, he knows.

When he is summoned to Elgar’nan’s holdings two days after the executions end, Aelynthi and Victory both know what it means. Aelynthi can still see the bruise across Victory’s face from when Elgar’nan had arrived and backhanded him, sending him crashing into a nearby wall.

It was only the healers fretting and Sylaise’ timely arrival that had calmed him, reminding him that there was a sick child in the room and he was disturbing her rest. Aelynthi had not wished for Elgar’nan to touch her, but he had been unable to do or say anything when he had entered the room and demanded to see her.

He will do more than break Victory’s jaw this time. Once again, Aelynthi is afraid. “It is not your fault!” Aelynthi insists, panicked. “Surely he sees that. Surely he will not—”

“I will not be executed,” Victory soothes, grabbing his arms and pulling him close. “My position here remains. It is only my title as general that has been stripped from me. I will earn it back in time. Those responsible have been dealt with. This is a more personal matter.”

Aelynthi pulls back slightly to look him in the eye. “But he will—”

“My punishment will be just.” Victory claims. “It will be no more than what I deserve. She nearly died, vhenan.” His voice cracks, full of guilt, “The poison was meant for _me_.”

Just, he says. A just punishment. There is no justice in any of it. That Elgar’nan sees fit to blame Victory for the anger and resentment the evanuris has caused makes him want to scream. But more than anger he is afraid. Afraid that Elgar’nan will decide when Victory arrives that execution is due.

_What if he sacrifices him?_

No. No that is a foolish thought. Victory is one of his highest-ranking soldiers. A general. He has given Elgar’nan honor and glory and victory at every turn. He will not sacrifice him. He _cannot_.

Aelynthi lets out a shuddering breath. “…three days of torment were not enough for what that monster did. He was one of your _men_ , why would he…he _knew_ _her_. He knew she might eat them, surely. How could he have done it? What could the Nameless have promised him for such a thing?”

If he focuses on his anger at the traitor who poisoned his daughter, he can push down the fear that Victory may not return. Victory will come back to him and their daughter will awaken and the world will be back to where it is meant to be.

“I will return to you. Watch our heart for us both.” Victory whispers against his lips.

Aelynthi closes his eyes. Half his heart lies sleeping in the room next door and half his heart is leaving him to endure a punishment he does not deserve. He cannot take this. He truly cannot.

A soft gasp from behind and they both turn as their daughter comes awake. He looks into her eyes and lets out a shaky breath, crawling onto the bed to gather her into his arms, Victory grabbing them both.

El’ena lets out a few slow, shaky breaths, eyes still bleary with sleep. “Papa? Babae?”

At the sound of her voice, the ice inside of him melts, that slow numbness that has built in him since she fell gives way to the tingling of feeling again, of warmth and love and happiness and relief.

“I have you, little heart. We both do,” Aelynthi chokes out. “I have you.”

“And I have you,” Victory rumbles at his back. “Deep breaths.”

Aelynthi shudders.

“Papa?” El’ena’s little hands, warm and moving and _alive_ press against his cheeks. “Papa?”

“I love you,” Aelynthi sobs, “I love you so much, little heart. I am so happy you are alright.” He feels her arms go around his neck to hold him closer. And he holds her and he cries and he thinks, perhaps, that he has never felt anything so perfect as his daughter’s arms around him and her warm breath at his neck and Victory’s warm presence behind him, surrounding and protecting.

_No one will ever hurt you, I will not let them,_ Aelynthi promises fervently. _I will protect you with my life, El’ena._

_Never._

_Never again will I let them take someone I love away from me._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Olwyn writes a poem and takes naps.

 She doesn’t know how longs she sleeps, but she wakes up in an unknown bed, groggy and confused. It takes several moments to realize where she is and to remember what had happened. _I was poisoned,_ she blinks sleep from her eyes. _I was stupid and I got poisoned because of it._

Before she can begin berating herself for her mistake, voices begin to drift in from outside the room. Aelynthi and Victory.

“It is not your fault!” Aelynthi insists, sounding panicked. “Surely he sees that. Surely he will not—”

“I will not be executed,” Victory’s tone is level and calm. “My position here remains. It is only my title as general that has been stripped from me. I will earn it back in time. Those responsible have been dealt with. This is a more personal matter.”

“But he will—”

“My punishment will be just.” Victory claims. “It will be no more than what I deserve. She nearly died, vhenan.” His voice cracks, full of guilt, “The poison was meant for  _me_.”

That poison was meant for Victory. Someone had tried to _kill him_. _Thank the Maker I ate the sweets first_ , Olwyn thinks, _what if he had eaten them and died?_ At least it explains why the poison had worked so quickly. Enough poison to incapacitate and kill a giant, full-grown elf, a poison that must act quick enough to keep him from calling out for help…

But why on earth had it not killed _her_ , then?

She hears Aelynthi let out a shuddering exhale. “…three days of torment were not enough for what that monster did. He was one of your  _men_ , why would he…he  _knew_   _her_. He knew she might eat them, surely. How could he have done it? What could the Nameless have promised him for such a thing?”

“I will return to you. Watch our heart for us both.” Victory murmurs.

She lets out a choked gasp. Oh no. Oh no. What has she done? Where does Victory have to go?

They are in the room within seconds, Aelynthi gathering her close, frantic. Victory is behind him, towering and smothering like a big, protective blanket.

She lets out a few slow, shaky breaths, “Papa? Babae?”

“I have you, little heart. We both do,” Aelynthi chokes out. “I have you.”

“And I have _you_ ,” Victory runs an open palm down Aelynthi’s back. “Deep breaths.”

Aelynthi shudders against her. “Papa?” Olwyn reaches out her hands to press against his cheeks, to turn his face toward her so that she can look at him.  “Papa?”

“I love you,” Aelynthi sobs, “I love you so much, little heart. I am so happy you are alright.”

Olwyn feels something inside of her crack then. She’s caused them so much distress and pain, all because of her foolishness. She should have _known better_. She winds her arms around his neck to hold him closer.

They stay like that for several moments, as Aelynthi tries to calm himself. She listens to his soft sobs and Victory’s shuddering, relieved gasps and she feels terrible. Worse than she’d felt when she was throwing up blood and poison and her insides had burned. This is so much worse because it’s _her fault_.

But she wouldn’t change how this had happened, not if it means that Victory might have died. Somehow her body managed to hold out long enough to flush out the poison. Perhaps it is something to do with how her body had been rebuilt and reborn into this world. Perhaps…perhaps it was whatever Solas had shoved into her chest before he’d pushed her through the light.

She swallows as Aelynthi finally pulls away enough to look her in the face. He brushes a few errant curls away from her eyes. “Why would you eat something we did not give you?”

“I thought they were for me.” She whispers, and hot tears slip down her cheeks. She’s been holding back the tears for as long as she could, but she can’t stop them now. “They were my favorite. Is Babae in trouble because of me?”

Victory leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, “No. No you did nothing wrong, little heart.”

But she did. She was so stupid, to eat those without thinking. To not be prepared with her magic. She _knows_ healing magic; she should have been able to prevent it. And now Victory will be punished. She knows what Elgar’nan does to those who displease him. “Don’t go,” She pleads, grabbing weakly at his hand. “He’ll hurt you.” Elgar’nan won’t hurt _her_ , she knows. Maybe if she goes instead, and explains things…

Both Victory and Aelynthi stiffen.

“No one is going to hurt your babae,” Aelynthi soothes, but his voice trembles ever so slightly. “It is alright.”

“I will be fine.” Victory murmurs. “I am just going to give some reports. I will be back.”

He does not say when. He does not say that he will not be hurt. Doesn’t lie like Aelynthi tries to. _I will be fine_ , he says, because he is going to endure it and survive, not because it won’t happen.

This is all her fault.

“Don’t go,” She says again, though she knows it is useless. She cannot fight Elgar’nan to protect Victory. She could not even save herself from that poison. She is not strong enough yet. She blinks back angry tears.

“I will be back,” He says again, and presses another desperate kiss to her face before he turns to Aelynthi. Something passes between them, something she cannot see or understand, and then Victory stands.

“No!” She calls, “Come back!” She sees him pause in the doorway, his back to her. Then he squares his shoulders and continues out of sight. She calls a few more times, and Aelynthi tries to shush her, holding her close.

“It’s my fault,” She murmurs against Aelynthi’s collarbone. “I’m sorry.”

“Shhh, it isn’t your fault, little heart. You’ve done nothing wrong.” Aelynthi soothes, but his voice is shaking. He pulls back to look her in the face and offers a watery smile, “Let’s call in the healers and then get you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

She thinks she might throw up anything she tries to eat. But the gnawing hunger in her stomach tells her she needs to. “Ok,” She looks down at her lap and sniffs.

After the healers leave, Aelynthi spoon feeds her an entire bowl of plain porridge. He takes a bite first, and waits several minutes before he lets her eat any. _Don’t worry papa_ , she thinks silently as she swallows _, I am going to train with my healing magic. And then no one will surprise me like that again._

When she’s halfway finished she pauses, “…you said it was a peacekeeper who did it. Who was it?”

Aelynthi freezes, mentally backpedaling as he tries to think of some kind of response. “You were not supposed to hear that,” He says finally.

“Why do people want to hurt babae?” She continues. She needs to know if there are any other threats to him aside from Elgar’nan. Are they investigating how a Nameless insurgent managed to become a peacekeeper? Do they have any possible leads as to who planned it all? There must be more of them in the city, in positions of authority, or at least mid-rank in order to pull something like this off.

And while she understands, somewhat, why the Nameless fight the evanuris, she will not forgive them for trying to kill Victory.

Aelynthi strokes her hair, “Sometimes, when people disagree on something, they fight.”

She nearly rolls her eyes. Yes, she knows that much. Being a five-year-old is really getting old. “But what were they fighting _about_?”

“It is nothing for you to worry about,” Aelynthi hushes her. “Finish your porridge. If it’s too bland I can add some honey. The healers say you cannot have food that is too seasoned. Your stomach is still healing.”

Olwyn knows. She can feel a tightness to her body, like a cut that’s just been stitched closed. If she moves wrong she fears she might split open. She knows she won’t, and later tonight, after Aelynthi has gone to bed, she will do a bit more healing on herself, just to speed things along and to see if she can figure out what kind of poison was used. Ancient elvhen healers _hate_ using magic on children. They seem to think that it’ll affect her growth.

Dying _affects growth. A lot. Especially dying from complications left over because someone didn’t want to cast a spell on a child_ , she thinks with a huff.

When the healers deem her well enough to leave the healing wing, Aelynthi takes her back to his rooms near the workshop and he does not let her out of his sight, not even for a moment. She is not even allowed to sleep in her own room. Instead she falls asleep each night curled up against Aelynthi as he holds her tightly. She knows part of this is his fear that something will happen to her if he cannot see her, and part of it is his fear for Victory.

Guilt gnaws away at her like the poison had, and it’s just as painful.

* * *

She feels like she’s going to explode from all this coddling.

Purpose hovers nearby, ever-vigilante and a comforting presence, but they cannot speak here, where anyone can hear, about important things. She must wait for her dreams for that.

What _can_ she do, then, stuffed into a corner of Aelynthi’s workshop with a dozen fretting elves and spirits? She isn’t allowed to leave the room unless she has to go to the bathroom, and if that happens, Aelynthi or Nieven or Subtlety must accompany her.

She is going to go mad.

She spends hours staring down at half-read books and tries to think of something she can do to pass the time that will be _helpful_ to her. Something that will be worthwhile, and will also distract her from thinking about Victory’s absence.

It hits her while she’s reading an old collection of folk legends, stuffed into a large armchair twice her size and wrapped in a large, fluffy blanket because “the weather is rather cool today, El’ena, and your body is still weak”. If she had died, all of the knowledge, all of the good and wonderful things from her time, would be gone forever.

She can remember, and she can record.

Even if she lives forever it does not guarantee that those things will happen again. She knows they won’t, if she and Lavellan can save the elvhen from the evanuris and keep Solas from putting up the Veil then the world of Thedas will not exist. Humans will be out there, somewhere, in the lands they lived in before coming to this continent.

The songs of Thedas will never be sung. The stories and legends will never be told. The battles and wars and uprisings will never happen. Some of that is good. There are periods in the history of humankind that Olwyn is ashamed of. Ashamed at the cruelty and the ignorance of her own kind.

But those moments need to be remembered too. Setting back time doesn’t set things right. They are a lesson to learn from, cautionary tales to be heeded. Even if no one else cares, it is her duty.

Another purpose, and one she can currently pursue.

It is too dangerous to write it all out, at least in elvhen. And she supposes books upon books written in some indecipherable code will be suspicious as well. She will have to think on how to store them, to keep them hidden. Perhaps she will find a pocket in the Dreaming safe enough for it all.

But she can start with the simple things, and makes notes for herself, to tell the tales she needs to when it is safe for her to write them down. To speak hard truths and not sugar coat her tales with longing. She will tell her story, and she will ask Lavellan for hers, if she agrees. So that they can remember everything, and so that the history of their worlds is not told simply through the eyes of a human. Humans were but a part of Thedas and a part of the tale. She laments that she will never be able to speak qunlat, or Arcanum, or dwarven. She cannot tell their histories. They will be lost forever. Wiped from existence, like swiping chalk from slate.

She begins with songs. Songs she knows, and sung often. The ones she hummed while walking the halls of Skyhold, or while she tended her herb garden while Cullen worked the fields, in that one spring where they’d had peace.

She and Cullen had tried for a child, once. After the Inquisition had disbanded and they’d retired to their small farm in Honnleath. Their timid, shared joy, the light in Cullen’s eyes and the curve of his smile when he’d look at her in wonder at the thought of their baby growing there.

Cullen had sung to her once, an old Avaar folk song he’d heard about a giant bear and they had laughed and imagined teaching the words to their unborn babe. “You can do the singing,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile, “You’ve the voice for it.”

She’d miscarried three months into the pregnancy. When the child had been little more than a whispered hope. The pain of poison burning its way through her stomach was nothing compared to the sight of that small puddle of blood on the bed and the hollowness that had followed.

Hunting down Solas to stop him from rending the Veil had been a relief, after, and they’d never had a chance to try again.

But she remembers the pain, and the grief, and Cullen’s whispered apologies against her neck as if somehow it were his fault. And she remembers that stupid song.

That stupid, stupid song about the bear.

“What is that?” Nieven peeks at the paper Olwyn has been scribbling upon for the last half hour. She’s currently trying her hardest to translate it properly into elvhen. It is hard to find the words, especially since her grasp of the language is still new and rather juvenile.

“It is a poem,” Olwyn replies cautiously.

“The Song of Mor’du,” Nieven reads aloud. Her eyes rove over the paper, over Olwyn’s halting translations, and her gaze goes from amused to contemplative to amazed in a span of three lines.

_I forgot that I’m only five again_ , Olwyn thinks worriedly. And then, _they’re going to think I wrote it!_ And then, _that is an extremely morbid poem for a five-year-old to be writing._

“This is…yours?” Nieven continues to stare.

“It’s…” Olwyn is not entirely certain what to do now. How is she supposed to go about explaining it without explaining everything—something she isn’t inclined to do to Nieven, of all people. But Nieven has already turned toward the others with a bright laugh.

“El’ena has written a poem!”

Aelynthi looks up from his own work, and the other apprentices and Subtlety also turn.

“it isn’t finished,” Olwyn panics.

“It is brilliant,” Nieven placates, “You have an amazing talent for words. Here, I will read it aloud,” She goes over the translated lines, and even though she does not know the tune to the song itself, her voice rises and falls in a lyrical cadence that fits.

It is changing already. The translation differs from the original, and the melody that Nieven begins to weave alters it even more. It is no longer The Song of Mor’du from the Avaar. In a span of a minute it has become something else. Something of this time.

As the apprentices being clamoring toward her with praise, as Aelynthi presses delighted kisses to her cheeks and claims that he will begin looking for musical tutors for her immediately, she wonders what will become of this song now. If thousands of years from now, humans will hear the elvhen poem The Song of Mor’du, and translate it back into their own tongue. If it will change back to the original, or become something else entirely.

It is a humbling thought.

And as the apprentices pick apart the lyrics, laughing and changing the tune and rhythm, she thinks about Mor’du the giant bear, and she thinks about the evanuris.

_Mor'du is never happy till_

_The blood runs from his jaws_

_He murders in the mountains_

_And he fights with ev'ry clan_

_His teeth and jowls have ripped the hearts_

_Fae many a highland man_

She thinks about Victory, still gone in Elgar’nan’s lands, and she curls up in her oversized chair and hugs a cushion for comfort. But before she can settle into grief, she remembers other lines.

_Mor'du, Mor'du!_

_The legend spreads from fire tae fire, of_

_The devil that we slew_

_Mor'du, Mor'du!_

_Now the time has come for_

_All of us tae slaughter you!_

The grief and anger and injustice settle back again, to where they can be hidden, and she smiles shyly as Subtlety compliments a verse, and asks her where she got the idea from, and Aelynthi looks a bit worried, “Where on earth did you learn such violent words? It must be the peacekeepers. Of course they would not know what is appropriate for a child to hear.”

Aelynthi fusses and tuts and she giggles and lets him because he needs it, and she does too, she thinks.

And because she knows that no matter how mighty the evanuris are…she and Lavellan will fight back.

_Now the time has come for_

_All of us tae slaughter you!_

* * *

Four nights after Victory leaves to speak with Elgar’nan, Olwyn and Lavellan meet in the Fade. It takes her that long to maneuver through the new wards and barriers that Aelynthi has placed upon her while she’d slept. These ones are meant to keep _her_ from leaving as well, and it if were not for Purpose’ help it would have taken a week more, at least, for her to find a way out without alerting Aelynthi to her meddling.

As it happens, it feels a bit like walking through quicksand the first twenty feet or so after she’s detected a thin gap in the spells. It is good, she thinks, that she is so tiny. There is less of her to pass through unnoticed. It takes ages to winnow down the wards enough to pass through. She doesn’t break them, merely makes them…less solid. If she breaks them Aelynthi will know. Purpose tells her that if the wards fail he will pull her out of the Dreaming and back into the Waking world.

So she whittles it down, and she is patient, and Purpose keeps her focused. She hums The Song of Mor’du to herself over and over, and mutters the words below her breath when she feels particularly irritated.

Lavellan is waiting for her in Skyhold. Or, well, a version of it. As Olwyn walks through the courtyard she sees that some things are different. The Inquisition banners are a different color, and the furniture and architecture of certain columns and windowsills is of a different make than she remembers.

This must be the Skyhold of Lavellan’s world, then. She manages to climb up to the battlements where Lavellan is waiting, but she has to catch her breath. Even here in the Dreaming, it takes quite a bit out of her, especially as she has used so much magic passing through Aelynthi’s wards.

Lavellan takes one look at her and smiles apologetically, “I forgot your body was still so small.”

Olwyn stares down at herself, at her too-short legs, and her tiny bare feet peeking out from beneath her skirt. She imagines she must have made quite a sight, clamoring up the stone steps. “I forget too, sometimes,” She offers cheerfully. It is so _good_ to see Lavellan. It does not matter that they are still awkward with one another, that they are still trying to navigate their relationship and each other. A bond has formed between them simply for being who they were; inquisitors, survivors of worlds now gone.

Lavellan is leaning against the stonework, looking down at the empty courtyard. Her gaze seems to be miles away. Perhaps she is remembering it as it was, full of people and promise. It is much too silent here, in the Fade.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to talk with you when we planned.” Olwyn speaks, if only to keep the silence at bay.

Lavellan shakes her head, “Are you alright? Purpose found me and told me what happened.”

Purpose had gone into Andruil’s lands for her. Had ran the risk of being captured and hunted. Olwyn glances at the spirit, who simply stares back. Olwyn supposes it would have mentioned it if she’d asked, but she hadn’t thought to. Still, it both warms her heart that Purpose had risked so much for her, and also terrifies her.

“Do not do anything dangerous like that again, unless there is no other way.” Olwyn orders. She supposes the sight of a five-year-old lecturing a bear-sized spirit is probably rather hilarious, because Lavellan coughs to hide a laugh and when Olwyn turns back to her, there is a smile curling the corners of her lips.

“All I know is that it was a servant of the Nameless. They were a peacekeeper,” Olwyn sighs, “Until I’m allowed back into the peacekeeper barracks I won’t know who it was. I could ask Desire.” She has to fight the urge to ask Lavellan to help Victory. There is nothing Lavellan could do against Elgar’nan, at least nothing that wouldn’t get them all killed. Still, it’s hard.

“I will ask them for you,” Purpose volunteers, “They will not tell you, but I can find out.”

Lavellan nods, “Purpose is right. They won’t tell you what happened. You’re still a baby in their eyes.”

“So are you.” Olwyn points out.

Lavellan sighs loudly, “Yes, I am. I’ve got ten more years until I get my vallaslin,” She pauses, “It’s…I do not know how to feel about it.”

They are slave markings, of course it would be a difficult thing to think about it. It must be even more so for Lavellan, who likely had them before, in her world, when they meant more than a brand of ownership, when they were sacred. She wonders how that must have felt, to realize that you’d been marking yourselves as slaves for centuries when you thought you were honoring your gods.

She doubts it was a pleasant revelation.

“How does it work? I never thought to ask any of the Dalish in the Inquisition about the tradition,” Olwyn slides down into a sitting position, legs spread wide as her skirt flares out around her. It is not necessarily cold, but the odd stagnation of the air chills her nonetheless. She pulls the skirt down to cover her toes.

“When a Dalish elf reaches adulthood they choose the markings they wish to have, and the color from the inks that the Keeper has available, and then the process begins. Before the actual blood writing happens, you meditate and pray to the gods for three days in silence.”

“That sounds dreadful.”

Lavellan chuckles. “When the tattooing begins, you are not allowed to make a sound, either. If you do, it is a sign that you are not ready to be an adult, and the Keeper might stop the ritual until they think you’re ready to try again.” She pauses, “Here…I have been informed there are consequences if you cry out. It is best not to test the theory.”

Olwyn nods. Most likely Elgar’nan would see it as some kind of personal offense to him and burn someone’s face off. She isn’t going to risk it.

“So,” Lavellan looks down from Skyhold’s parapets. “I don’t imagine El’ena is your real name.”

Olwyn shakes her head. “It’s Olwyn. Olwyn Trevelyan. I was a Circle mage before the rebellion. From Ostwick.”

“Clan Lavellan,” Lavellan says softly. She tells Olwyn her first name, later. Short and pretty, like the woman herself. Olwyn sees the exchange of trust for what it is. They will not tell anyone else each other’s past, but they will keep it for each other all the same. Secret and safe.

“So,” Olwyn breathes out, “What would you like to know? You already answered one of my questions, so it’s your turn to ask now.”

Lavellan stares at her, long and hard, before she speaks. “If the opportunity arises for you to kill Solas, will you?”

Olwyn blinks. That…was not the question she had been expecting. But at least she can answer it honestly. She lets out a huff, “I may be angry with him, but I don’t hate him. There are things I’ll never forgive him for, but wherever Solas is in this world, he hasn’t done any of those things. It would be very rude to kill him for something he hasn’t done yet.”

A bit of tension leaves Lavellan’s shoulders.

Olwyn wonders if Lavellan would have killed her if she’d said yes. She’s not entirely certain on that front, which is a bit unsettling. But she understands. And it also brings to light something she’d been ruminating over ever since she’d first asked Lavellan if Solas had been her “friend”. She has a feeling that Lavellan and Solas had been more than friends. She knows that look.

“I suppose if we’re both here, it means…well it means that whatever we do here, it won’t affect the worlds we were from. Those are…they are gone forever, aren’t they? This isn’t just the past of my world, or your world. Because we wouldn’t both be there if that were true. I wonder what happened to me in your world. I wonder if I died at the conclave.” Olwyn swallows. Maybe she never made it to the conclave in Lavellan’s world. Maybe she’d been made tranquil, or she’d been killed during her harrowing, or she’d died in the mage rebellion.

“Yes. They’re gone,” Lavellan murmurs.

The air is heavy as they both lose themselves in memories. Are they picturing the same people? Olwyn wonders. How different were they to Lavellan? What kind of relationships did she have with her advisors, or Bull, or Dorian, or Vivienne, or the others? How did all of those things change the course the Inquisition took?

“Mages or Templars?” She finds herself asking absently.

“Hm?” Lavellan glances down at her.

“Did you seek out the mages or the Templars for an alliance? I mean, I obviously went with the mages. It didn’t take much to choose on that front. But I was wondering about you.”

“I sought the aid of the mages as well,” Lavellan nods.

“Ah,” Olwyn sighs, “I was just wondering if maybe things would have gone differently if I’d sided with the Templars. I always wondered if that might have changed things in the long run. With, you know, Solas tearing down the veil and killing us all.” She waves her hands in the air and lets them drop to her side.

Perhaps this outcome was inevitable, then. No, there had to be some world out there, where the Inquisitor sided with the Templars, or chose things so radically differently that it wasn’t the same. Perhaps they were cruel, and hated mages. Perhaps in those worlds, Solas simply did not send them back. Or perhaps he still did, and that’s where Falon’Din came from.

It isn’t fair, how helpless she had been. After everything she’d done, after everything Lavellan had done, they’d still not been able to do anything. And if Lavellan tried as hard as Olwyn did, then there’s nothing she can fault her on.

It’s almost a relief, too. Because it means that there was nothing she could have done differently. That the failure was not hers.

“Sometimes I wonder if I did enough,” Lavellan whispers, so quiet that Olwyn nearly mistakes it for a sigh.

Olwyn stares down at her clenched fists in her lap.

_“You came.” Solas states, mouth twisting into a grimace._

_“Of course I came.” She gasps out. Her knees threaten to buckle, but she keeps herself upright with her staff. She feels like death warmed over. “You’re my friend. I don’t leave my friends behind, regardless of their plans to destroy everything I hold dear.”_

_Solas does not look much better, all things considered. Thinner, and the circles under his eyes are dark and pronounced. There is a cut along his nose, and a bruise on the right side of his jaw. The angry part of her hopes that someone had clocked him good. He has a hand pressed to his stomach, and blood oozes from between his fingertips._

_“You should not have come.” Solas continues weakly. The sound of fighting outside the temple echoes through the stone passageways, magnified by the high, curved ceiling above them. A bit of dust falls from the rafters as a large crash reverberates from some connecting hallway._

_“You shouldn’t have tried to destroy the world.” She answers back with a pained smile. “I guess we’ve both made mistakes today. It isn’t too late to_ stop _trying to destroy the world you know. I won’t hold it against you.”_

_Solas sighs, looking pained._

_Olwyn shrugs, wincing as the cut on her back stings. “Well, it was worth a shot.”_

_“You cannot fight me.” Solas shakes his head, “and you cannot stop what I have begun. It is nearly finished. It cannot be undone.”_

_Olwyn snorts. “You forget that I have a very nasty habit of ruining evil plans that everyone else thinks are foolproof. It’s a Maker-given talent that I’ve grown to appreciate.”_

_“…how can you still be so happy?”_

_“Happy? Oh I’m not happy. I’m furious. I am so angry I want to cry.” Olwyn bites out, “But turning into a self-righteous hate monger isn’t going to change your mind. And honestly Solas…if I don’t smile I think I’ll scream.”_

She swallows, throat tight, and thinks about the world burning around her as she’d looked into Solas’ eyes and he’d apologized.

“…me too…”

—

Victory returns to them three weeks later.

They are sitting in Aelynthi’s rooms near the workshop. She’s plucking at an odd lute-like contraption that Aelynthi has given her to test out while he talks about some of the pleasure district workers he knows who are quite talented with the instrument and are willing to be her tutor.

The air goes a bit quiet, and then the door opens and Aelynthi is halfway across the room. Olwyn stands and rushes over as well, just as Victory pulls back from Aelynthi’s lips to lift her up and hold her close.

“Hello little heart,” He murmurs against her curls.

She clutches at his neck and is shocked at the whimper that breaks free of her lips. She has been so _worried_. She had nearly asked Purpose to find Lavellan to see if she could somehow track him down and discover what had happened to him, at the very least. Just so she would know if he was hurt, or needed rescuing.

He seems tired, because he sits down in one of the large chairs in the main room and lets out a sigh. He looks thinner, and there is a tension to him that was not there before.

“What took you so long?” She asks as she sits in his lap and frets, looking over every inch of him she can for any injury. Aelynthi stands nearby, fingers twitching, as if he wishes to inspect Victory for injuries as well. “It does not take three weeks for _reports_.”

“It is alright.” He answers, holding her close. “Babae got into a little fight on the way back and had to stay at the healers for a while.”

A lie. There are no new scars on Victory’s body. That means the wounds he received were not made in battle.

They are not something to be proud of.

She holds him as tightly as he does her.

There may be others who deserve punishment more readily, she supposes, but she knows that when the times comes, she will make Elgar’nan understand the pain of these three weeks.

“While you were gone, El’ena wrote a poem. It is very good,” Aelynthi says lightly, a hand on Victory’s shoulder. He gives it a squeeze and smiles tightly. “Would you like to hear it?”

“I am still fixing it,” Olwyn asserts. She has to fight the urge to change Mor’du to one of the Evanuris every time she looks at the offending paper, but her work is coming along. At least her awkward mistranslation and grammar are more in-line with a five-year-old than she’d originally thought, so that it doesn’t seem entirely like she’s some kind of lyrical genius.

Victory looks so _tired_.

She pats his cheeks, “Sleep?”

He smiles down at her, “Are you tired?” he casts a worrying look over her face, as if trying to find any lingering poison, “Have you eaten today? Are you unwell?”

“I am fine.” Olwyn waves off his fussing. “You should sleep.”

Victory chuckles, but it is not as loud as usual. “I am fine.”

Well then, she will have to take drastic measures. “Family nap,” She demands.

Victory blinks, “A what?”

“I wanna sleep on your tummy. Family nap time.” She looks over at Aelynthi. He has not been sleeping well either, she knows. He could also use the rest. When she had still been an infant, and woke up from terrifying nightmares and memories, Victory had let her sleep on his stomach. She’d focused on the rise and fall of his chest with each breath and let it rock her back to sleep.

She isn’t tired right now, but they are. She’ll be content if they drift off.

“Well,” Aelynthi drawls, “If El’ena is tired enough for a nap, I suppose we could try.”

Victory lifts her and they head into Aelynthi’s bedroom. The bed is big, large enough for all three. Victory lies in the middle and settles Olwyn comfortably on his chest. Aelynthi curls up at Victory’s side and drapes an arm over them both.

“You should have told me if you were tired, little heart,” Aelynthi murmurs, petting her hair.

“I wanted Babae to be here too,” Olwyn asserts, “Everybody should sleep now.”

Victory laughs softly, the sound rumbling up his chest. She can feel it in her bones, and it warms her. That is the laugh she knows. Loud and jarring even when it is soft. She can practically hear them thinking “we’ll stay until she falls asleep”.

She smiles smugly to herself when, fifteen minutes later, both of them are dead to the world. She presses her ear to Victory’s chest and listens to his steady heartbeat to remind herself that he is alive and well. There had been times during the past few weeks where she had worried that was not the case. On the nights when she’d wake up to Aelynthi crying softly as he held her.

_I’ll protect you both_ , she thinks drowsily, as she finally lets herself drift off as well. _Don’t worry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blame my niece's love for Brave for The Song of Mor'du, everyone. XD


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Olwyn learns things and plans rebellions.

It takes two more weeks before Aelynthi seems comfortable enough with letting her sleep in Victory’s apartments in the peacekeeper barracks. She is still not allowed to sleep alone, though. Victory holds her tightly, and she’s almost worried he might squash her the first few nights, when he curls up, exhausted with phantom pains and memories she feels guilty over.

Aelynthi comes with her for the first night, and places entirely new wards throughout her bedroom (despite the fact that she isn’t allowed to sleep in it at the moment). The first person she hugs when they arrive is Desire, who sweeps her into her arms and plants a kiss on her forehead.

“We were so worried,” She murmurs. “I am glad you are alright.”

“I am tough,” Olwyn asserts.

Eagerness brings her an entire box of candy that Aelynthi and Victory check twice over before letting her have. She feels bad for the misdirected distrust, but she doubts that it will fade any time soon. Besides, she is not worried. The poison was not personally meant for her in the first place, so there is unlikely to be an attack from anyone here against her.

She is far more worried that someone will trying to kill Victory again. She will have to be more vigilant. And if sleeping in the same bed as Victory will keep potential assassins at bay and let her look out for him more closely, she’ll get over the irritation at being smothered.

Aelynthi may wish to coddle her and keep her safe and secure, but she is more driven to become stronger than ever before. She throws herself into practicing with her staff, and trying to build up some more strength in her arms. If she begins now, it will be easier in the future.

She asks for a heavier stave from Desire, four days after she’s returned to the peacekeeper barracks. “If I train with a heavier staff, when I return to using the lighter one, I will be faster and my hits will have more force.”

Desire blinks, “What are you training so hard for?”  
“I have to protect my babae from the people who want to hurt him,” She replies simply, and Desire cannot seem to decide if she is being adorable or worrisome. But a week later, Olwyn finds a new staff tucked into her secret alcove with a hollow, lead-lined middle that she can fill with different weighted cores.

She wonders if Lavellan can teach her some hand-to-hand as well. Maker knows she’ll need it.

A month after the poisoning, Victory takes her to visit Elgar’nan.

It is difficult not to attack him. She doubts he would hurt her if she did. A five-year-old isn’t going to be much of a threat, even a five-year-old who has the mind of an adult and a really weird magical second heartbeat.

But she doesn’t, because she fears that somehow Elgar’nan will think that Victory told her and has poisoned her against him. So she smiles and takes the candy he offers and thanks him for his attention and praises when he tells her that she looks pretty in her new dress and asks if she will show him her magic.

She summons the fire easily, indistinct shapes, the simplest of tricks that does not give any reason for suspicion, simply praise. He shows her several new spells, and she catalogues and memorizes his form and technique and vows to practice and perfect them in secret while she pretends mediocrity in his presence.

The worst part, she thinks, is that Victory is present for it all. To wait and watch as Elgar’nan heaps praises on her and acts as if she is _his child_ after he has tortured her real father for three weeks for an accident that Victory had no control over.

Purpose has told her that Elgar’nan approved of the peacekeeper that had tried to poison her babae. He had personally given them the position. He is the one at fault here, and yet he took none of the blame. She will never forgive him for that.

In the Fade she learns from Lavellan, and she delves inside herself to study the odd magic that Solas has given her, and she plans vengeance.

Sooner or later, she will judge the man that judges all, and he will be found guilty.

* * *

Understandably, the planned playdate with Lavellan is pushed back after the poisoning. But luckily Olwyn does not have to wait too long, after she spends several weeks whining about wishing to meet Lavellan and play with her. It is the first time she acts like a spoiled child, and Aelynthi relents faster than she’d thought.

Aelynthi lets her wear her new dress for her playdate. It is the color of marigolds, with a crown of the flowers placed atop her curls. She is a bright splash of color against the white stone of Arlathan. It is spring, and the spring festival will be coming up within the next few months, meaning that Victory is busy going over security measures and cannot come with them.

Both of Lavellan’s are with her when they all arrive at Aelynthi’s workshop where they had agreed to meet. Thenvunin is beautiful and brilliant. He reminds her of the courtesans at Melarue’s pleasure house; dignified in their finery, and alluring.

Uthvir is just as Lavellan described. Sharp and red and short. Funnily enough, they remind Olwyn more of Aelynthi than anything else. Looking for danger that is not there, ready to eliminate any threat by any means necessary.

And Lavellan…Lavellan looks just like she did in the Fade, though here she is wearing a nice set of leggings and an embroidered tunic that Olwyn suspects Thenvunin has forced her into.

She has to stop herself from rushing forward to give Lavellan a hug. She supposes that would be a bit odd to everyone else. But the sight of Lavellan here, real and solid in the waking world, nearly brings her to tears. She is certain that the “adults” present are confused by the emotions in the air between the two of them, but she cannot find it in herself to care overly.

Lavellan is _real_. Not something she has made up in her desperation for some contact with her world.

She is smiling so brightly her cheeks hurt. She bounces a bit on the balls of her feet, and smooths down her skirt. She supposes she looks very much the image of a cheerful and excited child.

Thenvunin crouches down so that he can be level with her, which she should find demeaning but is actually grateful for. He is very tall, and the sunlight reflecting off of the gold clips in his hair makes it hard to look up at him for too long.

“That is a very lovely dress you are wearing,” Thenvunin smiles.

“Thank you,” Olwyn chirps, “Mirena made it for me. She told me she’s your mother. I love your dress too.”

Thenvunin blinks a few times, looking surprised, but the air around him is delighted as his smile widens. “My mother made mine as well,” He concedes.

Olwyn nods. “She is very good at making dresses.” She looks up at Uthvir, who is watching her curiously. Perhaps they are trying to decide what to make of her round ears, or trying to come up with some conclusion as to why two children have been found abandoned in the woods. To see if there is any connection she can ascertain between Lavellan and Olwyn.

Uthvir is very observant, she will have to be careful.

Then Olwyn turns to Lavellan and gives her a shy grin, “Hello.”

Lavellan smiles back, and it’s awkward, their first meeting in the real world, but beneath it is the comradery that has already begun to form between them. “Hello,” Lavellan waves, “My name is Lavellan.”

“I’m El’ena,” Olwyn replies, “You are much bigger than I am.” She tries to speak like a child would, a child that is supposed to have met Lavellan for the first time today. The adults seem to find the exchange adorable.

“There is a very nice park near Mythal’s Arlathan estate,” Thenvunin continues, “I thought we could visit.”

“I have never been to that park,” Olwyn nods, before she grabs Lavellan’s hand in her own, “We could play a game.”

“Yes,” Lavellan agrees, giving her hand a comforting squeeze. “I would like that.”

The park is large, made of sprawling lawns and exotic plants that seem more at home in a jungle than the white city. Olwyn gets a bit side-tracked looking at some of the flowers. She looks over at Aelynthi and Lavellan’s parents, “We are going to play over there.” She points toward a small cluster of creeping vines and a few tall trees.

“Be careful,” Thenvunin fusses, “Remember to hold her hand so that she does not wander off, Lavellan.”

Olwyn nearly rolls her eyes as Lavellan cracks a smile and nods. Aelynthi looks torn between thanking Thenvunin for reminding his own daughter to look after Olwyn and saying something about how his daughter does not need to be reminded not to wander off.

As they head toward a more secluded area to talk, she hears Uthvir remark, “Your daughter is very energetic and free with her affection.”

“That is simply because Lavellan was very mature for her age,” Thenvunin defends.

“El’ena is very observant and mature as well,” Aelynthi argues back.

Lavellan and Olwyn exchange a look.

_Parents_.

* * *

The idea of tutors is something entirely foreign to her. If she had not been a mage, she knows that she would have had them; to learn how to properly dance, and the intricacies of court etiquette, and foreign languages, and embroidery. As it were, in the Circle, they were not given many options. She had been severely uneducated in many areas when the Circle fell and she’d found herself Inquisitor.

It is both tedious and exciting. She likes learning new things. Her favorite classes are those involving music; Harmony is pleased with her fervor for the musical arts. She has always enjoyed singing, and knows her voice is decent, but learning to play instruments is an entirely new endeavor that she takes to eagerly. She learns to play the lute, and the drum, and the harp, but her favorite and the one she wishes to master the most is an odd, stringed instrument she had never seen before coming to Arlathan. It is favored by the pleasure workers in Melarue’s halls, as long as a person with a resonating, mournful sound that she loves. Morwen teaches her to play it exclusively.

Her combat lessons continue with Victory. She overhears one night that Telfanim “the elf who once kidnapped her” had offered to teach her swordplay and had been so violently and viciously shut down by Aelynthi that Splendor had to step in before a fight broke out.

There are no lack of people willing to teach her some new skill, and she is eager to learn. The more she knows, the better she will be at protecting people. Her magical tutors are delighted with the spells she shows them. She manages to make herself seem prodigious without showing them everything she knows. She is remarkable for a child her age, but not so much that they will suspect she has more magic and power than she should.

Her grandma Faunalyn shows her how to handle a bow, and a hunting knife, and while she doubts she will ever be more than a lackluster shot she’s glad for the lessons. At least she will know how to use them, if there is ever a time when she is left without her usual means of defense. Her favorite lessons with Faunalyn involve learning how to move silently, and to hide her tracks on the ground.

Grandnanae Melarue teaches her how to read people, to observe and to hold herself with confidence. To walk into a room and command attention. To create personas depending on the situation. To be either what you wish to be, or what you want others to see.

Aelynthi teaches her how to sculpt. To find inspiration in unknown places, and form ideas with clay and stone. And he teachers her how to ward and shield and obfuscate with blood magic. Blood magic is not something she was very familiar with in her own time. But it is useful, and the connotations that came along with it in her world do not exist here.

And Purpose teaches her about the Dreaming, and answers her questions about spirits, leads her toward some who are willing and eager to share their knowledge. It continues to grow in strength as she does, as if her moving forward toward their goal feeds his own purpose.

 She practices and grows, and she counts down the days until she is big enough to make a difference.

* * *

She is eleven years old when she learns the name of Aelynthi’s father.

The streets are full to bursting with festive party-goers. Anyone who can comes to the city for the celebrations. When Sylaise plans an event it is a sight to behold. Aelynthi is in an oddly foul mood compared to the joviality of the rest of Arlathan’s residents. He flits between agitated scolding and quiet melancholy.

It is not overtly obvious to people who do not know him, but Olwyn can tell something is wrong. Victory knows the cause of it, because he watches Aelynthi anxiously when they are together, and tries his hardest to draw him out of his moods with jokes and small gifts. When she asks, however, he tells her nothing is wrong and the next day Aelynthi is acting as cheerful as before, but it is forced. Obviously Victory has mentioned her concern to him.

There is only one other person she can ask, then, who might know.

Her grandnanae Melarue and the rest of the courtesans in the pleasure district are out in full force. Melarue is hosting a party for a group of high-ranking officials who not wish to spend the upcoming evenings in the crowded streets with the lower ranks.

Still, when she appears with Aelynthi they all flock to her with praises; to pinch her cheeks or comment on her dress, or ask if she wishes to play, or to recite one of her poems. Her poems have begun to become quite famous among her family and their acquaintances. 

Halfway through their visit she glances over the rim of her teacup to see Aelynthi pinching the bridge of his nose.

Melarue takes one look at Aelynthi’s frown and huffs. “Spend the evening with your husband,” they command. “I will watch El’ena for the night. The festivities do not officially begin until tomorrow, after all. You have not gone out just the two of you since El’ena came to you. Enjoy yourselves.”

Aelynthi looks uncertainly at Olwyn, as if he fears she will think this means he is abandoning her. He is always afraid she will think he has chosen something over her. And well, she thinks that it’s perfectly alright if he does. He is allowed to live his own life. She feels guilty that she’s taken it over.

“You and babae should go have fun.” She agrees.

“Will you be alright by yourself? Are you sure?”

“I will be fine,” She nods. “I am eleven now, papa. I can spend the night alone. Enjoy your time with babae.”

Aelynthi deflates a little. “Are you certain?”

“She is in good hands, my son,” Melarue ushers him toward the door. “I raised you well enough. I think I can successfully watch my granddaughter for an evening.”

Aelynthi lets out a sigh, before turning back toward Olwyn. “I will see you tomorrow. There will be several musicians playing in Our Lady Sylaise’ new theatre. Would you like to listen to them?”

Olwyn nods. “That would be fun. We’ll all go together, right? You and babae and me?”

Aelynthi kisses her forehead, “Yes. All three of us.”

“Go now,” Melarue shoos him away, “Enjoy yourself.”

Aelynthi looks back at her one last time, indecision flitting across his face, before some of the other courtesans begin leading Olwyn away to listen to their new songs. When she looks back, he has finally left. _Good_ , she thinks.

Later that evening, as Melarue tucks her into bed, she decides it is about time to broach the subject of Aelynthi’s mood.

“This is your papa’s old room,” Melarue states, looking around with a contented smile. They have many different smiles, but most of them are sharp and beautiful and cunning. This one is not. Their whole face softens when they smile like this. “I have kept it for him in case he ever needed a space away from everything. I will offer it to you for the same purpose. Sometimes you need a place that is your alone.”

Olwyn nods. She has a room both in Aelynthi’s apartments and Victory’s, but they are so covered in wards and spellwork that it’s almost suffocating.

“Papa has been sad lately,” Olwyn begins, “It began when the festival was announced. No one will tell me why. Do you know?”

She knows that if Melarue knows the reason they will tell her. She can always trust Melarue to tell her the truth. If it something that they think is inappropriate for a child they will explain in the simplest terms, or explain the reasons why they cannot tell her. They do not lie or simply refuse to explain like most adults, she’s learned.

Melarue stares at her, long and hard, before they seem to come to a decision. “Your parents would say you are too young to know, but I think you are ready. You see more and understand more than Aelynthi did at your age.” Melarue leans back against the cushions beside her and sighs. “I do not know if that is a good thing or not, little one.”

Olwyn curls up against their side and waits for them to continue.

“Your papa had three parents. Myself, and your grandma Faunalyn, and his father Nithroel.”

Olwyn blinks. It is the first time she has heard that name. But she knows that Aelynthi had a father and that he is dead. She remembers one of the first arguments Victory and Aelynthi’d had after adopting her; Aelynthi’s father had been mentioned then. But that is all she knows, and more than she is supposed to, she thinks.

“He was a dancer, and one of Our Lady Sylaise’ servants. Both your grandma Faunalyn and I loved him very much. He was beautiful and quiet and gentle. When he walked it was like the gentle ripples of a pond when one skips a stone.”

She has never heard Melarue sounds so wistful. They are quiet for a few moments, and Olwyn waits patiently. Melarue will speak when they are ready to do so.

“Your grandma Faunalyn and I met through him. They were petitioning for a child but Nithroel did not hold much rank, and Faunalyn was not as favored by Andruil then as she is now. I was high-ranking even then, and I had known Nithroel since he was a spirit. They asked if I wished to join them.”

The way parenting and petitioning for children work is still a bit confusing to Olwyn. The rules and ranking system seem very convoluted.

“Nithroel was a wonderful father,” Melarue sighs softly, pressing a kiss to Olwyn’s forehead. “He would have loved you.”

Olwyn burrows down further in the blankets and close to her grandnanae. It is not necessarily cold out, but the warmth is welcome. And Melarue smells like magnolias. She listens to the steady timbre of Melarue’s voice as they continue.

“Long after Aelynthi was born, the war with the Nameless began anew. Faunalyn gained prestige in battle and earned more of Andruil’s favor. Nithroel…” Melarue swallows, eyes distant. “He was no warrior, and he held no high rank. His dance was not the current trend favored by Sylaise. Before the final battles, Sylaise and the other rules knew they needed more power.”

Her stomach drops. She knows where this is going and she does not like it.

“He did his duty, and aided our leaders with his sacrifice.”

His _duty_. Olwyn feels like vomiting.

“The festival celebrates the victory of our last war with the Nameless. Aelynthi is remembering the loss of his father, that is why he is upset.”

Olwyn wraps her arms around Melarue’s waist and gives it a squeeze. “I’m sorry,” She whispers against the silk of their robes. “You loved him too. You must be sad too.”

Melarue sighs, petting her hair. “Yes.” They agree.

How safe are any of them, then? What happens if their illustrious leaders decide one day to go to war and that they need more power? Who will pay the price then?

“Do not worry,” Melarue assures her smoothly, as if they know where her train of thought is going. “Both of your parents hold a high enough rank with their leaders to dissuade from such things.”

“And you and grandma Faunalyn?”

Melarue seems both surprised and pleased at her concern. “Us as well,” They nod regally. “There is no need to concern yourself.”

But she is concerned. And the fear that settles in her chest is one she does not think will ever leave, not until the evanuris are dead.

* * *

At thirteen she takes up glass-blowing. Her skill with sculpting clay seems to have reached its peak. She does not think she will ever be more than competent at it. But the crafting of glass will be invaluable to her future plans; specifically, the creation of bombs.

Aelynthi is pleased that she enjoys the arts, though he seems a little disappointed that it is not a facet he can teach her. And truly, she does little more than watch and listen to her new tutor explain how the process works. If she finds herself interested in taking up the art as a profession she will get more hands-on experience, she supposes. It is unlikely she will be given leave to begin crafting things anytime soon. She is still a _child_ , after all.

She continues with her stave practice, both with Victory and with grandma Faunalyn. In their dreams Lavellan teachers her hand-to-hand combat because honestly, without her magic she’s just a lunatic waving a pointy stick.

It’s also at thirteen that she first learns to change her shape.

It is a much more common skill here in elvhenan than it was in her own world, and something she has been trying to do for ages. It takes her a long while to decide what kind of shape she wishes to try. And it takes a little longer than that for her to realize that she cannot simply force a shape because she wants it. So several of her initial choices do not get far, as her body rebels, the magic denying her because the shapes themselves are too far removed from what she is, in a sense.

When she finally does shift, it is after a particularly tiring day. The kind that leaves her wishing fervently for the ability to protect those she loves and angry that she is so limited in what she can do.

She nearly lets go of the form out of shock once she realizes what it is. She holds it for several minutes before turning back and collapsing on the ground, fighting tears. She is glad that both of her parents are busy and she’s been left alone in her rooms, because she cannot imagine trying to explain the reasoning for her anguish.

A _mabari_.

She has changed into a mabari, of the same coloring as Cullen’s old Pup that had fallen with her husband on the Fields of Ghislain.

When Cullen had fallen, she’d seen Pup collapse. Just…give up. Bloodied and bruised but still alive, until Cullen had crumpled to his knees.

She remembers screaming Cullen’s name, as Bull had grabbed her around the waist and dragged her away as their lines broke. She remembers the fading afternoon light reflecting off of his helmet flecked with blood, and Pup’s high-pitched whines.

She remembers, and the ache in her chest grows. She has worked so hard at keeping it at bay. Fits of melancholy do not suit her, after all. But sometimes it happens, like a physical blow that knocks her to the ground until she cries it out, drains the sorrow dry. It accumulates slowly over the years again, each time, never fully gone.

She weeps, until she no longer can, and she holds onto the idea that a bit of Cullen has come here with her. Mabaris choose their owners for life. Loyal protectors. It almost feels as if Pup has gifted her the shape himself. To remind her that it is her job to protect now.

And protect she will.

And she is not the only one that has lost a loved one in all this mess. Perhaps Solas was the cause of all of it, but he perished just the same. And when Olwyn is thirteen Lavellan confirms what she already suspected. That she and Solas had been lovers in her past.

They are in Skyhold’s great hall, at the table where Varric always sat with his writing near the fireplace. Tonight the banners and stained-glass windows reflect Olwyn’s memories rather than Lavellan’s.

“So you two were…together?’ Olwyn clarifies, after digesting Lavellan’s halting and somewhat confusing explanation.

Lavellan blinks. “I…yes.” As if even after all these years she is uncertain how Olwyn will take this information. As if she still fears that it’s a trick, and Olwyn secretly despises Solas and wishes him dead twice over.

Humor always seems to put Lavellan at ease again, and it is Olwyn’s best defense against dark thoughts. “Oh man. You had sex with him and even that couldn’t convince him not to destroy the world?” Olwyn runs a hand through her hair. “I never stood a chance just being his _friend_.”

Lavellan lets out a small laugh; it is tinged with sadness, and the weight of hurtful memories, but it is something. She shakes her head as she looks Olwyn over.

“What?”

“I am just wondering how Solas was with you.”

“He frowned a lot,” Olwyn admits, “You know the one. That tiny little brow furrow and accompanying grimace like he’s just swallowed a spoonful of leeches?”

Lavellan coughs. “Yes I…I remember that look.” She looks torn between laughing at the image and trying to defend him.

“He made the same face when drinking _tea_ , Lavellan. _Tea_. How could you have fallen in love with that man?” Olwyn points out. The fire in the hearth nearby crackles, but it does not give off any heat. Behind her, she can almost hear the whisper of nobles as they wait near the Inquisitor’s throne.

“I can honestly say that his taste in tea was not high on the list of important relationship factors.” Lavellan replies dryly.

Olwyn shrugs, “I suppose that makes sense.”

Lavellan leans back in her chair. It doesn’t creak like it should. The furniture in the Dreaming seems much sturdier than it was in her world. That is an odd idea in and of itself. Lavellan continues to study her, expression calm. “Despite your feelings toward his hatred of tea you were still his friend.”

“I didn’t have many friends in the beginning. He was…calm. I was so out of my element and afraid. I was an apostate and now I was being called a heretic and there was painful magic eating away at me and he was there,” Olwyn swallows. “He was there for me. And even if I know now that it was because of the anchor, it doesn’t change the fact that I felt safe for the first time in years knowing he was there too.”

She shakes her head. She hates being sentimental when it doesn’t change things. It’s too easy to start brooding. And she’s had her good cry for the year already. She doesn’t need to let that ocean of grief inside her rise any further. “I mean, he got all preachy a lot. Lamenting over the past and what not. But he was patient when I didn’t know things, and eager to teach when I asked. He was just as starved for friendship as I was, I think, and he was willing to take it where he could get it, even if I wasn’t an elf.” Olwyn pauses, “I’m glad you were there for him, in your world. I’m glad he had someone there too. He deserved that much, even through it all.”

Lavellan nods, and her eyes shine in the starlight. “Yes,” She agrees, voice barely above a whisper, “He did.”

* * *

When she’s fifteen, it feels like she’s finally begun to come into her own. Her body is almost the shape she remembers. She is…leaner now, more muscled. But she still maintains some of her roundness, so different than the sharp lines and limbs of the elves.

Her magic finally does what she wills it. She can call upon it within seconds, and it settles around her like a second skin, comfortable and comforting. She has gained a bit of a reputation for her fire, but she still keeps much of her skills a secret. Elgar’nan continues to dote upon her and praise her for her progress.

_If only you knew the extent of my flames_ , she thinks darkly, sometimes; when she remembers years ago when Victory left for three weeks and came back hollow and distant.

As Lavellan reaches adulthood they begin making further-reaching plans. They will need someone inside, someone close to the evanuris, who has authority and means. And they will need someone who will be overlooked and underestimated. Someone that can go unseen between groups.

Olwyn already plans on becoming a peacekeeper, and she has Elgar’nan’s favor. She volunteers for role number one. This seems to suit Lavellan well enough. And Lavellan is good at hiding her tracks and being unassuming, much more so than Olwyn.

Olwyn has always been loud and cheerful and flashy, but even more now that she’s been raised by Victory and Aelynthi. She has gained Victory’s booming laugh, and has learned how to properly project her voice to be heard over a crowded tavern, or a battlefield. And she adores the clothing that Aelynthi procures for her, that Mirena makes. Bright colors and glittering things. She is not flamboyant, not quite to the level of Thenvunin or Splendor or, god forbid, _Tasallir_ , but she stands out far more than Lavellan.

Thenvunin sends them an invitation for Lavellan’s vallaslin ceremony the same year, as Lavellan turns twenty-five. She, Aelynthi, and Lavellan’s grandmother Mirena travel together. Faunalyn meets them at the nearest eluvian to guide them safely to the Huntress’ main holding. Olwyn feels oddly exposed in the middle of the wilderness.

Like a rabbit in a meadow with hawks circling overhead.

She holds her gift for Lavellan close to her chest as they make their way through the large courtyard. It is a book of songs and poems from Thedas that she has meticulously written, along with accompanying illustrations that she asked Subtlety to help with in exchange for mixing her watercolors and running errands around the workshop. It is not much, but it is a piece of home.

Andruil’s holdings remind her of the Avaar, which makes her think of the first poem she’d written here. The Song of Mor’du. It has never seemed more befitting an evanuris than it does now, as she spies the animal pelts and rugged timber.

The huntress herself is beautiful, in the same way Melarue is—dangerous and striking. But there is a wildness to Andruil’s beauty that is entirely her own—and entirely unsettling. She fixes her golden eyes on Olwyn and gives a slow smile, “So this is your granddaughter, Faunalyn?”

“Yes, my lady.” Faunalyn nods, and she is a steady presence at Olwyn’s side. Just behind her stands Aelynthi, and she can almost feel him physically stopping himself from moving between them so that Andruil is no longer looking at her with those piercing eyes.

“Well,” Andruil blinks, “It is certainly curious. Two babes in such a short time under such…dreadful circumstances. Do you know Lavellan, child?”

Still a child, though she is fifteen and nearly grown and taller than Lavellan now. Yet she has never felt so small as she does now, standing before Andruil. “Yes my lady. We have met several times,” Olwyn nods politely, “She is a very kind person.”

“Mmmm,” Andruil hums, and Olwyn is not sure if it is in agreement or not. She comes to the conclusion that she does not like Andruil one bit. The Huntress puts her on edge like none of the other evanuris she has met before have. Sometimes she forgets that Sylaise can be cruel, and when Elgar’nan is doting over her like a proud parent it almost makes him seem likeable. Almost.

But Andruil does not give off any air of being anything but what she is. A hunter. A predator.

Luckily Andruil loses interest in her fairly quickly, and Aelynthi leads her to where she can place her gift on the table with the rest. She says her congratulations to Lavellan, who looks both excited and concerned. Uthvir, Olwyn notices, seems as on edge as Olwyn feels.

It is the second time Lavellan will be putting vallaslin on her face. Olwyn wonders how different it feels now. She reaches out and gives her hand a squeeze, and Lavellan looks down at her in surprise before she offers her a smile and squeezes back.

Moments later several more hunters appear to see the “new baby” and Aelynthi and Faunalyn spend the next hour or so trying to keep them from pinching Olwyn’s cheeks. They are still rather round, she knows, and give her a younger looking face than Lavellan had at fifteen.

Andruil performs the ceremony herself, and scrawls her markings upon Lavellan’s face in crimson. It matches Uthvir’s, and when she glances at the sharp elf they are holding themselves as stiffly as a taught bowstring ready to snap. The lines remind Olwyn of blood.

_Mor'du is never happy till_

_The blood runs from his jaws_

* * *

“I am going to kill Andruil.”

Those are not the first words she expects out of Lavellan’s mouth when they meet in the Dreaming a week later. They are not, however, very surprising.

But, as she sees Lavellan trembling and feels the tense air around her, a mixture of fear and anxiety and bone-chilling fury, she knows there is more to this than their usual lamentations about how shitty the evanuris are.

“What happened?” She asks her friend, leading her toward the table and chairs by the fireplace.

“Andruil—my nanae—I—” She starts and stops several times, righteous anger burning in her throat and devouring the words until the flames have calmed again. It takes several tries before the story is out, and Olwyn feels sick to her stomach as Lavellan trails off at the end into angry, muted silence.

“What do you need me to do?” Olwyn asks finally. She can fight now. She can fight _well_. She’s been training and building up her magic, and the odd thing that Solas had shoved into her chest brims with even more power, magic foreign to her that she has been learning for years now. If Lavellan needs her to cause a distraction, or set Andruil’s feet on fire while Lavellan skins the huntress alive, she’ll do it.

Is Andruil doing these things to her _grandma Faunalyn_?

“Nothing yet. I can handle it for now I just…thank you,” Lavellan sighs, deflating all at once. “For offering. Thank you.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Olwyn pats her arm. She looks to the vallaslin on her friend’s face, so foreign. A denotation of ownership. She _belongs_ to this woman now. To a tyrant who butchers and tortures for fun.

Lavellan tries to smile but fails. She is still too angry and shaken. “I can do it,” She repeats, but she glances up at Olwyn, “If I fail…”

“I will do it.” Olwyn confirms. Though she thinks that Lavellan stands a much better chance against Andruil than she ever would. “But I’d really prefer you not go dying on me now. All of our plans to fix the world are going to be really difficult with just me doing them.”

Despite how much she has longed to do something; she truly had not expected them to begin murdering would-be-god-kings so soon. But perhaps this is the best time. No one will ever suspect Lavellan, a fledgling elf with her vallaslin still wet on her face.

The first battle in their war is coming sooner than they’d expected. But as former Inquisitors, neither of them are strangers to unexpected difficulties. This is just another hurdle to climb.

_Now the time has come for_

_All of us tae slaughter you!_

She awakens to the words clinging to her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many time skips! But we’ll be staying with teenage Olwyn for a while now. She’s finally old enough to actually do things, and well, as you can see, stuff is happening. Fun stuff. Long live the revolution!


	11. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Olwyn has a nightmare and attends a wedding.

Lavellan does not tell her the full extent of her assassination plans, which is just as well. 

Despite how secure Olwyn has been making their small corner of the Dreaming, there is still the chance some wayward spirit might hear something crucial and deem it important enough to tell someone.

But she knows that it will happen soon, before Andruil can do anything more to Uthvir. And so she waits, and frets, until one night Lavellan visits her.

“It’s done,” Is all she says, voice steady and expression grimly satisfied. Then she sags against the wall; exhausted. It isn’t a tiredness of the body, though she’s obviously drained herself dry killing the Huntress, but a fatigue of the spirit. Tired of all the death and the killing and the corruption that fuels this society.

Olwyn slides down beside her and leans close. Their arms touch, and Lavellan leans her head on Olwyn’s shoulder and sighs softly.

“Good,” Olwyn murmurs, before she begins to hum an absent tune.

* * *

It takes a full month before anyone begins to suspect something is wrong.

Victory is talking with Aelynthi in their rooms when Olwyn returns from her glass blowing lessons. She has finally managed to make something she thinks Aelynthi would approve of—actually approve of, not just say he likes because she is the one who made it—and wants to show him before he leaves for Sylaise’ summer palace to restore some frescoes before the area is suitable for habitation again.

She can hear them talking from the small hallway that separates her room from Victory’s.  

“She has been missing overlong. My mother has been out searching for weeks. Have you heard anything?”

“No,” Victory sighs. “There have been rumors among the others in Elgar’nan’s upper ranks that something is amiss. I am not privy to such things. Information gathering and spywork are not my strengths.”

_No one will find anything,_ Olwyn thinks smugly. _Lavellan made sure of that._ She knocks, and both Aelynthi and Victory turn and smile, as if they were not just discussing the sudden disappearance of one of their leaders.

“El’ena, I thought you were at your lessons,” Aelynthi frowns thoughtfully.

“I finished early. I wanted to show you what I made,” Olwyn smiles, holding up the object in question. It is a glass fish, delicate but simple because she could not make anything more elaborate. She’s infused it with a spell that will keep the magic flame she’s placed inside of it burn with no heat. It flickers, and makes the scales of the fish shimmer.

“Oh it is _beautiful_.” Aelynthi breathes, “Look at what our daughter has made, Victory. It is perfect.”

Olwyn thinks the spellwork is far more complicated and impressive than the glass itself, but she won’t argue with him. She’s in far too good a mood over Andruil’s demise to care too much. She simply smiles and lets Aelynthi pepper her face with kisses and coo at her like she is five again.

Nothing can spoil her mood today, so she’ll indulge him.

* * *

It is not often she dreams of her Harrowing, or her life at the Circle. It was not particularly brutal, or challenging. A Desire demon had preyed on her want for freedom and acceptance. But fear…fear had been a part of her life from the moment she’d been taken to the Circle at seven. That terror had pushed her forward. She had known that if she did not pass this test, they would kill her. The Templars were just waiting for a chance, for a sign that she was a threat.

The Circle at Ostwick had not been as bad as Kirkwall, if rumors were to be believed, but neither was it a kind place.

Especially not for a pretty young woman.

Perhaps it is the knowledge of what Andruil had done to Uthvir, and likely Faunalyn, that reminds her of searching, grasping hands in the dark. She is not certain, but when she goes to sleep that night she awakes in her room in the Circle.

_She can smell the lavender soap they use on laundry day, and hear the shuffle of bodies as the other mages in the room toss and turn in slumber. It is still dark outside. She can just see a sliver of moonlight from the high, barred window on the opposite wall._

_She hears the lock on the door turn, and it swings open with a groan and the scrape of wood against stone. She pulls the covers further up to her chin and forces her eyes shut. **I am asleep, you do not want me, I am asleep** , she chants silently._

_She is sixteen, and come into her womanhood, and she knows that Henrik, one of the new Templar transfers, has been watching her. She does not like the look in his eyes, and some of the older mages have tried to shield her from his gaze. **Do not be Henrik, do not be Henrik** , she can feel tears begin to prick the corners of her eyes as the sound of metal-tipped boots echoes in the silent room._

_She has lain awake before and heard the creaking of beds and muffled sobs. She knows what nightly visits from Templars entails. **Go away, go away.** She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to calm her breathing as the footsteps approach._

_A gauntlet covered hand comes down on her mouth and her eyes spring open. Metal bites into the corners of her lips, and her heart crashes against her ribcage as she forcibly stops herself from fighting. If she does they will kill her. The will say she is a dangerous mage. They will make her **tranquil**._

_She sobs against chainmail, hands grasping tightly at the sheets as a heavy weight settles over her, crushing and smelling of sweat and iron and lyrium._

_The Templar leans forward and she can make out his face in the murky darkness._

_Henrik._

**_Wake up! Someone wake up_ ** _! She pleads, as his other hand pulls back the blanket. The air is cold, and his armor is colder. But no one will come to help her, even if they are awake. How many of them are lying in their beds even now, listening as she often has, sick to their stomachs but secretly relieved it is not them?_

_He gets a hand under her sleeping gown, metal-tipped fingers biting into the flesh of her thighs. She wants to escape. She wants to kick and thrash and scream. But if she does, they will kill her._

**_It will be over soon. Close your eyes and thick of something else_ ** _, she shudders as his hand nears her smalls. **No no no please, someone, ANYONE**. The fabric tears, and the sound echoes in the silence._

She awakes with a stifled scream, limbs flailing, grasping for purchase, as terror and panic lace the air and the fireplace in the corner of the room bursts into frantic, wild flames.

The door to her room swings open and Victory charges inside. “El’ena!” He sees her curled up on her bed, trying to catch her breath and still the beating of her heart as she sobs. It is just the lingering terror of a memory, she knows. She is safe here. No one is going to hurt her.

“It’s ok,” She gasps out, tears sliding down her cheeks in torrents, “It was a bad dream, I—”

Victory gathers her close, and begins to hum softly as he rocks her back and forth in his lap. Even now, when she is fifteen and nearly grown, he holds her like she is made of glass. He smooths down her hair and continues to hum as they both wait for her tears to subside.

Henrik never raped her, in Ostwick. One of the older Templars on patrol had seen the door ajar and gone to investigate and had pulled Henrik away before he could do more than tear her clothes. Old Emil was kinder to the mages than most, and kept them relatively safe from some of the others when he could. And really, most of the Templars used the Tranquil for their pleasure if they wanted it, rather than risk a mage deciding to defend themselves and turn into an abomination.

Sometimes she wonders what would have happened if Old Emil hadn’t been there that night. She remembers feeling grateful and relieved that he’d come to her aid. Grateful that a Templar had felt generous enough to save her from one of their own. And yet…and yet he was still one of them. Still willing to lock mages away with cruel people like Henrik and Betina, who had once ground her hand into the stone when she’d bent to pick up a fallen book and had broken three of her fingers. She had still not been human to Old Emil. A kicked dog worthy of pity, perhaps, but not a _person._

It makes her think of Mythal. _“She was the best of them,”_ Solas had once said, as if that made a difference. Old Emil had been one of the best of the Templars, too. He didn’t rape or beat the Circle mages, but he kept them imprisoned, and treated them like they were lesser. A kind owner is still an owner.

Olwyn is no one’s possession. She refuses to be. Sometimes she wishes that she could go back to that time. To show her old self that she did not deserve that kind of treatment. To convince herself that she was worth of respect, and demand it.

But no one had told her that then, and she spent nearly all her life believing she was the one at fault for being born a mage. That others had a right to hate her for that. She wants desperately to let these people know that isn’t the case. That their worth is not determined by the rank they hold and the vallaslin they wear and the benevolence of their _kind masters_.

“Are you alright now, little heart?” Victory murmurs.

“Yes,” Olwyn swallows. “Yes. I am…don’t tell papa. He will worry over nothing.”

“It did not seem like nothing,” Victory pulls back a bit to look her in the face. “What kind of dream could have made you so distraught?”

“It was an old memory,” Olwyn shakes her head, “That’s all.” And she pauses, as realization dawns on Victory’s face and he winces, and pulls her close again. “I’m sorry,” He murmurs against her hair.

_Oh_.

There is only one memory traumatizing enough to cause her to scream that Victory knows of. When she ate the poison meant for him and nearly died. She grips him back in a fierce hug, regret hanging in the air, and she does not know whose it is.

“It is not your fault, babae. You have done nothing wrong. I am alright.” And she begins to sing softly the song he had been humming before. Victory laughs, “I am supposed to be comforting you, little heart.”

“We can comfort each other.” Olwyn kisses his cheek. “I am fine now, babae. You can go back to sleep.” It takes fifteen more minutes before Victory is convinced she is alright. She stares at the closed door for a long while, before she sighs and stands.

She will not be getting any more sleep tonight.

* * *

Olwyn is training with Desire in the outer courtyard when the news reaches them.

Andruil is dead, the Huntress has finally been killed by her dangerous quarry. The barracks are utter chaos, as everyone gathers near Victory’s office as he reads the missive. His expression is dark and serious.

“Silence!” Victory barks, as the peacekeepers begin to talk among themselves about what this means, and whether or not it was a beast that killed Andruil or something else. _Someone_ else.

Desire’s expression is grim. Olwyn had expected her to look more relieved at the news. She knows how close Desire and Uthvir are. Instead, Desire’s frown deepens as the peacekeepers around them continue to guess as to what happened to the Huntress and Victory begins shouting out orders.

“What’s wrong, Des?” Olwyn murmurs, touching the older woman’s arm.

Desire shakes her head, “What will happen to Andruil’s hunters?”

Olwyn blinks. She had not really thought of that. What indeed? They must go somewhere, obviously. Surely they will not be blamed for Andruil’s death. Lavellan had worked hard to make certain that the death could not be placed on anyone.

Olwyn steps forward, “Her people,” she begins slowly, looking at her father. “Where are they sending them?”

“Is that what you are worried about?” Victory snaps, not at her but at the situation. “The city is in chaos. All of the peacekeepers are to be present at all times. Do I make myself clear?”

The assembled group nods, faces set, but Olwyn can see the unease and worry in the air.

“You are going to live with your Papa until the city has settled again. He has returned from Sylaise’ summer palace at the news.” Victory announces, and Olwyn’s face falls.

“I am more useful here,” She insists. “Papa will be busy with preparations for the funeral.” Likely he will be carving some great monument for her.

“You are going.” Victory replies, in a voice that says there is no room for debate. Olwyn bites her cheek to keep from saying more, as Victory tells her to go to her rooms and pack what she will need. He wants to get her away from the talk of death and speculations of murder. These are not things a child should hear, and at fifteen she is still considered a baby.  She knows that if the other peacekeepers were not in shock over such an unprecedented revelation they would never be caught speaking of such things in her presence.

_Whether you speak of them in my presence or not, the bad things will still happen_ , she thinks petulantly as she does what she is told, murmuring a goodbye to Desire who seems lost in her own thoughts.

Her satisfaction at Andruil’s death is tampered by her worry of what will come next.

_It is alright_ , she thinks as she begins to throw together some clothing. _Everything is going according to plan. It will be alright. We will come up with a solution, whatever happens._

\---

Desire comes to her in Aelynthi’s workshop. The air around her is a tumult of emotion, and it looks like she has debated whether or not to come at all. Likely she thinks that Olwyn, as a child, should not be privy to any distressing news. But she does come, and Olwyn promises Aelynthi she is just stepping outside to get some fresh air.

They walk to a secluded garden behind the workshop. “They are sending them to Falon’Din,” Desire chokes out. “All of the high-ranking hunters.”

Olwyn’s stomach plummets. Falon’Din. _Falon’Din_. They are being passed from one monster to the next…and this one is not so secretive about his nature. “And the lower ranks?” Lavellan is new to her vallaslin, she has no real rank yet. Olwyn knows that Desire is worried about Uthvir, Lavellan’s parent. And Grandma Faunalyn…being sent to Falon’Din? No. No she will not let it happen.

She will need to act quickly. There are still so many things she must do…she will have to find Purpose, and see if it can procure the items she will need.

Lavellan comes to her in her dreams that night, and tells her that she is safe. Mythal has announced that Lavellan will become one of her followers instead of being sent elsewhere. She will remain with Thenvunin. It is Uthvir and Faunalyn they must worry about now.

“I will do it this time,” Olwyn says resolutely, and Lavellan offers little resistance. She simply asks, “Do you think you can?” And when Olwyn says yes, that is that.

Many elves begin to throw together weddings, so that their loved ones can be protected from the cruelest of the evanuris. Thenvunin proposes marriage to Uthvir. It is one less casualty she and Lavellan must worry about. Uthvir will be safe.

But her grandmother is not.

Faunalyn comes to visit them, and the look upon her face tells Olwyn she thinks she will not be returning. She tries to remain cheerful when Olwyn is present. But Olwyn knows now, how to listen when she should not be.

Later that night, when she is meant to be in bed, Melarue comes to Aelynthi’s rooms, and the three of them talk while Olwyn leans against the wall, fists clenched tight. The door is ajar, and she can see inside, to Aelynthi pacing back and forth while Faunalyn and Melarue stand still and quiet. Purpose curls around her, a comforting warmth, as she listens.

“I have found what you asked for,” Purpose had told her earlier that night. Half of the battle has already been won then.

“You were one of Andruil’s highest ranking servants,” Aelynthi frets, concern sharp in the air. “They cannot send you. Surely you could be an asset to Mythal, or Elgar’nan. Perhaps I could ask Our Lady Sylaise—”

“There is no reason for them to make a claim for me.” Faunalyn shakes her head.

Melarue steps forward, “There is another way,” They say, softly.

Faunalyn blinks, and her expression softens, but she shakes her head. A wry smile twists her lips, “Marriage would not suit us, Melarue. It would be a terrible end for us both. And everyone who knows the two of us knows that we hold little love for one another.”

“I do not hate you.” Melarue offers. “You are Aelynthi’s mother and El’ena’s grandmother. I would not see you go to Falon’din if there was something I could do to prevent it.”

“No,” Faunalyn shakes her head. “I will survive this. We are tenacious, us hunters. We have survived many trials. This is but another one. I would not tie you to me for this. We would be miserable, at best.”

“El’ena, come inside. Eavesdropping is unsightly.” Melarue drawls. Olwyn sighs. Melarue always seems to know when she is sneaking about. She opens the door with a sheepish, worried smile.

“El’ena!” Aelynthi frets, looking at his parents and then back at her, “You should be sleeping.”

Olwyn swallows, fixing her gaze on Faunalyn. Her grandmother’s pensive stare turns to a tired smile as she reaches out and ruffles Olwyn’s hair, “Do not look at me with that face, beastie. Everything is fine. Your papa is simply a worrywart.”

Aelynthi is so distressed he can’t even agree with her.

“Let me look you over,” Faunalyn sighs, “It may be a while before I can visit. Falon’Din does not let his attendants leave him often. I will try and find a position within his Arlathan holdings if I can.” She looks over Olwyn as if she is trying to memorize what she looks like. Like she does not expect to come back.

Olwyn’s throat tightens, and she grabs the taller woman in a tight hug. She blinks away the tears that threaten to fall, and whispers, so that only Faunalyn can hear, “I will save you, grandmamae. I will come for you, do not worry.”

She pulls back and sees the confused furrow of Faunalyn’s brow but merely gives her a watery smile in return, “Do you have to leave soon?”

“After the funeral.” Faunalyn answers. She seems to be trying to decide if she misheard Olwyn’s earlier words. “At the moment I must help Uthvir organize the others and keep them in line.”

“Will you be going to Uthvir’s wedding?”

“It is truly time for you to sleep now, little one,” Melarue steps forward, and tucks Olwyn’s arm into the crook of their elbow. “Come, I will walk you back and make sure you go to bed this time.” Olwyn glances back one last time at Faunalyn, and the hunter sends her a reassuring smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, before the door closes.

* * *

Desire chalks up Olwyn’s sudden interest in Falon’Din’s lands to her worry over Lavellan’s nanae and her grandmother, which isn’t untrue. She tells her about what she knows, of the few times she has been there. Falon’Din guards his lands jealously, and rarely allows followers from other evanuris to come and go. Elgar’nan has ordered his peacekeepers into his territory on a few occasions, and Desire has been there for those.

That, along with what she has seen of his estate and followers within Arlathan, paint a sordid picture.

The desire and the urgency to kill him increases exponentially.

The entire city is in mourning for Andruil still. All the artisans churn out images of grief and sorrow and loss; of Andruil’s great accomplishments in battle and the hunt. Aelynthi looks ragged and hollow-cheeked whenever she sees him at home. All of the artisans at the workshop are being worked to the bone, rarely sleeping. She is the one that reminds them to eat, and brings them food from the dining hall down the street. Victory she sees even less of. The peacekeepers are out in full force at all times before the official funeral and tribute for Andruil is to be held.

The entire city is tense. How many people and spirits will be sacrificed to appease the hunger of the dead huntress?

None, if Olwyn can help it.

Lavellan tells her of her parents’ hurried wedding plans, their need for witnesses and guests for propriety’s sake. Olwyn speaks with her father, and Aelynthi agrees to come, and even manages to set aside some time to sculpt a gift for them in-between carving the massive effigy he has been tasked with (“It is nice, to create something with meaning,” he says, when he thinks no one is listening but Subtlety).

Over the course of raising herself and Lavellan, he and Thenvunin have become better acquainted, and are even kind to one another when not constantly bragging about how their child is far superior to the other. She learns that her grandnanae has already been invited by Thenvunin’s mother. Victory will not be attending; the head of Arlathan’s peacekeepers is not allowed out of the city until the funeral is over.

And while Olwyn helps the artists, and listens to the hushed gossip and rumors about the state of their leaders, she plots the death of another.

After the wedding she will kill Falon’Din. That way, if she ends up viciously murdered in the attempt, she’ll not be absent for such an event. That would just be rude.

* * *

The wedding is breathtaking. It is difficult to describe, the emotion behind it, and the look upon Lavellan’s parents’ faces as they say their vows. For a moment, Olwyn forgets that she will be killing a man within the week. _A monster,_ she reminds herself. _A monster who would have looked upon this wedding and felt nothing._

The sculpture that Aelynthi presents to them makes her heart ache. It is one of his signature pieces, the kind he was originally known for. A portrait that is not a portrait. And as she looks at it head on, it seems to simply be just that. A portrait. But then the perspective shifts—or the stone does?—and Uthvir and Thenvunin become more than themselves. They become affection, and perseverance, and a deep, lingering sense of completeness. And sometimes it shifts even more, and there is just Thenvunin, insecure and haughty, graceful as a swan, or a loving father who sings his child to sleep, or a whistling blade in the midst of a battlefield. And in the next moment there is just Uthvir. Fierce and predatory, hawke-like, sharp, who fretted over Lavellan’s childhood cough, who is soft under their spikes, and something else, that even Aelynthi does not seem able to understand or articulate.

Some people find Aelynthi’s portraits unsettling. They show things people do not always wish to see.

But there is nothing here that is new, or unfortunate. It is simply Thenvunin and Uthvir as they are, and as others know them, with a new connection between them that perhaps they themselves were not fully aware of before.

Thenvunin stares at the sculpture, and his throat bobs. He looks to Aelynthi, who is pale and tired and so, so worried for the fate of his own mother, and whispers a strangled, “thank you,” before he turns back to look at Uthvir, and the wonder upon his face hurts a bit.

Olwyn remembers her own wedding, and has to turn away.

She had once looked at Cullen like that.

“We must return, I am afraid.” Melarue’s hands come around her shoulders and pull her close, as they look to Thenvunin and Uthvir. “Aelynthi must finish his latest piece, and there is much to be done.”

Lavellan appears out of the crowd of guests then, and grabs Olwyn’s hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. “I will see you later,” Lavellan states. The surety of her words bolsters Olwyn’s resolve. That is right, she must focus on the task at hand.

Lavellan knows her plans. Knows the urgency of them. They make the same promise, before Aelynthi and Melarue take her back toward the road and the eluvian and Arlathan. If Olwyn fails, Lavellan will kill Falon’Din in her stead and get Faunalyn out of there as quickly as possible.

A second death of an evanuris so close to the first cannot be seen as an accident. There will be no coincidence assumed in this case.

Instead, they’re going to make a statement.

This is a declaration of war.

And Olwyn knows just how to sign it.

**Author's Note:**

> In Roman mythology, Janiculum is the name of an ancient town founded by the god Janus. Janus is the god of beginnings, gates, transitions, time, doorways, passages, and endings. He is usually depicted as having two faces, since he looks to the future and to the past.


End file.
